Brain Matter
by Lanaea
Summary: General K/S-ish-ness. I've decided to collect the little one-shots that fly through my brain in here for now.
1. Jim Had Known

Jim had known that he and Leonard McCoy were going to be good friends when the man had taken the seat next to him and informed him that he'd probably get puked on. He knew it because they were going to Starfleet Academy together, and he was the only person on the shuttle who didn't look like someone had shoved a pole up his ass, so, statistically, the odds of Jim finding someone else to spend the next three years with were pretty slim. It was just lucky that Bones also happened to be one of the best men he'd ever met.

Jim had known that he was never going to get it on with Uhura when he'd seen her kissing Spock in the transporter room. He'd figured it out because if she was kissing Spock, and she'd been turning him down for years, then it was likely she had some weird alien-kink fixation. Which was fine – god forbid he should ever judge someone for their sex life – and it at least gave him a good explanation for all the turn-downs now. He tried not to think too hard on it when she dumped Spock for Scotty, though.

Jim had known that he and Scotty were both in love with the same lady when an alien species had offered to trade what amounted to half a planet for the _Enterprise_, and even though she was Starfleet's, and they never would have been able to accept anyway, the both of them had worn identically horrified expressions at the prospect. Pictures of it from the ship's bridge surveillance systems were still floating around, courtesy of some very amused (and anonymous) security officers.

Jim had known that Sulu was going to make one hell of a captain someday when he'd gone crazy with that weird alien disease and started running the corridors, waving a sword, pretending to be a musketeer, and snatching up 'damsels' left and right. The guy might have been one hell of a pilot, but like most species in the universe, Jim could recognize a member of his own kind when he saw them. Someday his helmsman's butt would be warming a captain's chair.

Jim had known that Chekov was going to endure some kind of horrible torture in his life the first time he'd seen the kid drink to his happiness. The universe was just far too fond of irony, and Chekov, with his startling intelligence, open, guileless demeanor, nervous smile and eagerness to prove himself was a temptation too strong to resist. The only thing for it was to start brushing up on his post-traumatic stress psychology while he still had the time.

Jim had known that he was going to die before Spock did the first time he stood in sickbay, staring at his first officer's prone form as his breathing came in a small, almost imperceptible rhythm, and finally felt the hard knot of panic and dread in his chest start to unwind. He knew he was going to die before Spock did, because his first officer's ability to suppress his emotions would make him strong enough to go on after that separation. He'd seen that grim determination in the older Spock as well. It was one strength Jim didn't think he'd have.

And he knew, then, that he'd also die alone – because he wasn't going to go as an old man in bed, and as long as his crew was with him, there'd always be someone to catch his fall.

---

**Author's Note:** Wound up writing a couple of snippets to get my brain working for 'Home' again (I stuttered. Apologies.) It seems to have worked, because I'm writing chapter twenty-five easily now, but I thought I'd post these to try and make up for the delay.


	2. Jigs

"We're never speaking about this again."

"Agreed."

"Not even if the universe depends on it. If we have to choose between sacrificing all of space-time or talking about this, then existence is up shit creek."

"…'Shit creek', Captain?"

"Figure of speech, Spock. I mean it'd be boned."

"..."

"…Oh, right. Um. Screwed over?"

"I do not see what the action of affixing two surfaces to one another by means of inserting a spiraled metal device has to do with our present situation. Or do you refer to the sexual usage of the term 'screwed'?"

"Well, kind of. I guess that's where the spirit of the phrase would… uh, but, that's not important, Spock. What I mean is that we're never to talk about what happened, no matter what."

"I am aware of your meaning, Captain. I was endeavoring to change the topic of discussion through the investigation of your unique choices of phrase and wording. Are you aware that both yourself and Doctor McCoy display an almost excessive tendency towards colourful euphemism?"

"Yeah? Bones does say some crazy shit sometimes."

"I have noted that he often invokes figures of religious significance when he is agitated. 'Goddammit' and 'Jesus' and 'Christ'. His usage of the word 'damn' is employed more frequently than other common human expressions, such as 'hello'."

"What, did you count or something?"

"There were unfortunately few projects to occupy my attention last week. It seemed to be a good opportunity to observe human behavior."

"And you picked _Bones?_ Wow. Way to jump in feet-first, Spock."

"I made no particular selection. However, given that I now take the majority of my meals with yourself and the doctor, it seemed advisable to focus my observations on the most readily available subjects."

"Oh… so, wait, wait, you've been watching _me,_ too?"

"Of course, Captain."

"…That's kind of creepy, Spock."

"I do not see why. You did not object to my observations of Doctor McCoy."

"Well, _no_, but you don't really spend _too much_ time with Bones. Between bridge duty and our chess games you and I see a lot of one another… how much of that time did you spend 'observing' me?"

"The majority of it."

"…And you really don't think that's creepy?"

"You were aware of my presence, Captain. I was not committing a violation of your privacy. Why should it discomfit you? You are prone to observing my own behaviors. It is nothing unusual."

"I guess. When you put it that way… so, did you notice anything interesting? My incredible charm, wit, and genius, for instance?"

"I have observed that you often attempt to seem less intelligent than you are, and employ the use of foul language and rude behavior as a defensive mechanism when your actions are being criticized. Additionally, while you project an attitude of general indifference, you are almost excessively concerned with the well-being of the crew and the ship. You show a predilection towards the colour gold – most likely in connection with a sense of approval for your command position – and blue, which is not an uncommon preference in humans. You will consume unhealthy foods when you are agitated with Doctor McCoy, but otherwise maintain an appropriate balance of diet and exercise, and like the majority of males in your age bracket, you are easily distracted by the prospect of sexual congress. You appear to enjoy assessing the mechanics of small devices and computer systems, and will bite the inside of your cheek intermittently during diplomatic transmissions. I have been told this habit signifies an attempt to refrain from making inappropriate comments."

"…"

"Captain? Are you certain you are not suffering ill-effects from our recent ordeal? The rate of blood flow to your face appears to have changed."

"…So, about that recent ordeal! Freaky shit, hey, Spock? I've never had a midget ride around on my back before. Or danced a jig. Would you call that a jig…?"

---

**Author's Note:** All dialogue FTW! Or general laziness. Take your pick.


	3. Disallowed

Spock was disallowed from Poker Night.

Actually, that wasn't technically true. Spock was disallowed from _playing_ poker on Poker Night. Or 'any other night, ever'. According to Kirk, this was because Spock did not 'get' poker, and had nothing to do with the fact that he had one of the universe's best poker faces. Dr. McCoy seconded this assessment, but Nyota refuted their logic, surmising that it had more to with Spock's success rate than his comprehension of the game. Mr. Scott refused to comment on the issue.

But the fact of it remained that even though he was, according to the captain, welcome to 'hang around', if he was not going to engage in the activity then there seemed to be little point in it. So instead he returned to the bridge, and determined that his evening would best be spent going over the ship's sensory logs of the last star nebula they had recorded. Spock was not unfamiliar with his situation. When he had lived on Vulcan, there had been many activities he was excluded from due to his human heritage. It would be only logical to assume that in human company, the reverse should prove true as well.

Poker Night was every Thursday evening. On Mondays and Fridays he played chess with the captain, on Saturdays he played Go with Mr. Sulu, on Wednesdays he played the Vulcan lyre in accompaniment to Nyota's singing, and most other days he spent his off-duty hours meditating or working on personal projects. Thursday, logically, should have been no different from one of these nights. And it wasn't. He had simply made a routine of doing additional science station work at such a time because it seemed expedient.

He explained this to the captain when he was confronted on his choice.

"I do not see why you should take offence with my leisure activities."

"Because this isn't _leisure_, Spock," Kirk countered, gesturing towards his station as if there were an offensive quality to it.

"There are no other activities requiring my attention at this time," Spock replied evenly.

Kirk sighed, and then bent over and leaned against the back of his chair, so that his head was resting very near to Spock's own. It caused him to stiffen and pull away at the abrupt and unexpected proximity.

"I already said I was sorry about that," the captain whined. Though, he was certain, Kirk would deny whining if called upon it.

"There is no need to apologize," he said. "I understand that I am somehow deficient in my capacity as a poker player. It is only logical that I be excluded from the pastime if my presence hinders your enjoyment of it."

Spock was just voicing a logical and perfectly reasonable agreement with Kirk's choice of actions. He didn't know why his words would engender such an abrupt change in demeanor, causing his captain's eyes to widen marginally, and for him to take on the expression he had heard Dr. McCoy once describe as 'kicking himself'. Humans were so expressive. It occasionally overwhelmed him when he attempted to divine the motivations behind their many gestures.

"…You know, I've been thinking," Kirk said. "Poker's a stupid game anyway. There are a lot of different group games we could play."

This response was confusing. Previously, the captain had expressed a definite enjoyment of the pastime, adopting his boastful demeanor and making his usual claims of supremacy over other players. Spock considered this, and wondered if the notoriously fickle quality to human nature was coming into play.

"Tell you what," Kirk continued. "We'll play something else. Say like… I dunno… bridge or something. I'm sure the database has all kinds of games, we could go through them until we find one that works."

A little perplexed, Spock tilted his head ever-so-slightly.

Kirk carried on. "So, you see, if we aren't playing poker any more, then there's no reason for you not to come on Thursdays," he insisted. And before Spock knew it, a promise had been elicited from him to attend the next 'game night', and he had been left once again to his own devices in the quiet of the bridge.

The next evening, he found he was still contemplating the oddity of the situation, and so when he and Kirk were playing chess, broached the subject again.

"Why has your opinion of poker changed?" he asked, wondering if the captain's opinion of chess would prove similarly unstable.

Kirk had smiled, and shrugged, and finally settled upon his answer, as well as his move in their game.

"It hasn't, to be honest," he admitted, much to Spock's increasing bewilderment. "I just think I'd rather disallow the poker instead."


	4. Too Many Spocks

"This cinches it," Jim said. "The universe is dead-set on making me the first man to have a monogamous three-way."

Neither his own Spock or the one with the beard seemed terribly impressed with him over that comment. He was too busy gaping between them to care very much, though. _This_ new Spock – and damn, but how many Spocks did the universe _need?_ – was younger than the other… other Spock. The old one. But he was still older than his regular Spock, looking to be in about his thirties. Jim promptly dubbed him 'Beardy-Spock'. He was starting to think that he was on the verge of obtaining a collection. Beardy-Spock, Old-Spock, and Spock-Spock. Or maybe he should be Scarred-Spock, except he didn't want to make Spock-Spock self-conscious over that.

"We can't fight fate, guys. It's just gonna keep flinging Spocks at me until this happens," he insisted. He didn't really _mean_ it – his Spock had a real jealousy thing for his other selves. Well, and other men. And women. Also, sometimes, houseplants if Jim looked at them for too long. But presented with this kind of situation, it was all he could do to keep from falling on the ground in peals of hysterical laughter.

"What are you _raving_ about, Kirk?" Beardy-Spock asked, and Jim noticed right away that he had a lot more hard-edges than his counterparts. "And what is this location? You will tell me now." At that, he took an aggressive step forward, and Jim's eyes widened as he felt a hand close around his neck.

It was only there for a second. Then Beardy-Spock promptly found himself thrown into the transporter room's console as good old regular Spock reacted.

"You will not touch the captain again," Spock said sharply.

"Unless that was foreplay," Jim added, earning himself two glares. He threw his hands up. "Alright, fine, shutting up. You can't blame me for trying." He couldn't help it – he was naturally predisposed towards Spock. In any form.

Beardy-Spock began sizing up regular Spock. Then he turned his assessing gaze towards Jim. "I am in another universe," he concluded after a moment.

"Probably," Jim confirmed.

An eyebrow quirked. "Fascinating. I also appear to be in another time."

"That too," he agreed.

"The transporter malfunction was likely responsible," his Spock reasoned. "If we ascertain the source of the disturbance and attempt to reverse the process, theoretically, we will be able to return you to where you belong."

Beardy-Spock straightened a bit, recovering from being flung and fixing up his sash.

Jim wondered if it would be possible to talk Starfleet into sashes. Shiny sashes. Maybe with gold trim.

"You are assuming that I would be amenable to returning to my own universe," Beardy-Spock pointed out. "What will you do in the event that I am not?"

"Hey, the more the merrier!" Jim said. He was starting to think that, eventually, every universe's version of Spock would make his way here.

His own Spock seemed to take offence at that idea. "Then you will be confined until we are able to forcibly eject you from our plane of reality," he replied sternly.

Jim hung back a little to watch the stare-off.

This was gonna be _fun_.

---

**Author's Note:** This really is just intended to be a tidbit, but I realize it's open for continuation, so there might be another one-shot (or more) in this series to follow up after it. Also, yes, I did tie it into my story 'Home', which is where the scar reference comes from – because scars and beards are the marks of alternate universe selves!


	5. Green With Envy

**Author's Note:** Okay, I'll add this in because some people expressed some concerns in their reviews. Spock would _not_ be this overt in 'Home', no, he's usually more even-tempered. Even though some of these oneshots take stuff from 'Home', _they_ aren't meant to have an effect on _that_ story, which I apply much more care to, because humour isn't the main goal. On that note, however, if it helps, imagine this is like a week before Pon Farr.

---

Sulu had volunteered to host Game Night in his quarters for two reasons. The first was that he had a kind of maybe tiny bit of hero-worship for Captain Kirk (who had jumped off of a mining rig and nearly plummeted to his death in an attempt to save his life). The second was that he liked the majority of the command crew, and hosting Game Night meant being invited to Game Night, which meant socializing with people other than Chekov. Who was also present, but had ensconced himself between Uhura and Dr. McCoy, and was busily trying to divine whether or not the two were starting up a torrid love-affair based on the unfriendly glances they kept shooting one another.

They were playing Cardassian Pinochle. Sulu was pretty sure that not even Commander Spock was entirely clear on who was winning. Prior to that evening, he hadn't known that it was possible to play a form of Pinochle with more than four people, but apparently the Cardassians had worked it out. Nevertheless, the evening had passed cheerfully. Sulu had learned that Uhura collected African cultural relics, much in the same manner he went in for ancient weapons. Dr. McCoy had shown some pictures of his daughter's last birthday party. Everyone was joking and laughing, and the captain had spent the majority of the evening making 'subtle' passes at his first officer, much to the chief medical officer's vocal dismay.

After a few minutes of this, though, Kirk turned to Sulu. "Hey, are those Rigellian spore flowers?" he asked, tipping his head towards the pot behind the helmsman. Surprised, Sulu nodded, and on impulse, turned and picked up the round clay container full of very tiny green blooms.

"I'm surprised you recognize them," he said, putting them on the table for the captain's inspection.

Kirk nodded absently, grinning. "My mom used to try and grow them. I always remember the smell," he explained. "She never did as good a job with them, though. These are nice."

Sulu preened a bit under the praise, and for the next long while, the captain diverted his attention to the flowers, smiling and examining them between turns. No one was paying much attention to the commander. He'd gone quiet, but that wasn't exactly unusual for him. Kirk kept up a soft conversation on the complications of growing spore flowers onboard a ship until, after some time had passed and he was laughing at some comment or another of Sulu's, Commander Spock extended a questioning hand.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the spore flowers.

Nodding, Sulu handed them over. The first officer took the pot in silence, examining it carefully and turning it over in his hands.

And then, to everyone's surprise, he dropped it.

There was a crash as the pottery broke and the flowers scattered. All eyes turned to where it had broken in quiet shock.

Sulu gaped.

Spock looked at the decimated houseplant. "My apologies," he said. "I appear to have suffered a momentary bout of clumsiness. I shall endeavor to replace them for you the next time we are at spacedock."

At that, everyone turned their shocked gazes to Spock himself.

It was generally agreed upon that a clumsy Vulcan was a universal impossibility.

Poor Sulu was only snapped out of his trance when Chekov started clapping.


	6. Under the Influence

**Author's Note:** My break from 'Home' apparently doesn't mean a break from leisurely K/S oneshots. This is established relationship, and can either tie in to 'Home' or not, I can't really say, to be honest. It's pure shmoop, though, so if that's not your thing, skip it. Done because I was re-reading 'Home' and recalled a request for Drunken!Chocolate!Spock. I've had Jim out-of-sorts every which way, so I guess it's only fair.

---

"Nobody puts _meat_ in their drinks around here, Spock," Jim assured his first officer as he handed him the cup of cocoa. Even though the internal temperature of the ship never really changed much, back on Earth it was the middle of winter, and so a variety of seasonal festivities had sprung up around the _Enterprise_. Jim had been indoctrinating his curious first officer to the 'wonders' of Christmas, since that was the one he'd actually celebrated himself. Spock was starting to cotton on to the fact that it would be impossible for _that_ many human traditions to end in mandatory sex, however, and so had taken to running his assertions past the rest of the crew by now.

But he clearly trusted Jim not to intentionally force him to break his dietary regime.

"I didn't even put milk in it," Jim added helpfully. "Go on." He took a drink from his own mug, relaxing into the joyful atmosphere of the mess hall as people conducted themselves with generally more cheerfulness than an ordinary evening would merit. There was something to be said for a little celebration.

Tentatively, Spock took a sip, and Jim watched his face for reaction. He didn't know how his first officer would take to the drink. It was hard to tell with foods, but he seemed to like tart and bitter and sweet things, when he wasn't eating his bland, Vulcan fare, so he guessed it would go over well.

It did. Spock took a second, longer drink after the first, curling his fingers against the warmth of the mug and turning an appreciative glance towards his captain.

"I find it… agreeable," he said. Jim beamed, and felt embarrassingly domestic about the whole thing. If his twenty-year-old self could see him now, he'd probably die of shock. Him, giddy over making someone 'happy' by giving him chocolate. That was so sweet it should be illegal.

_You,_ he informed himself, _are turning into a fucking marshmallow._

Well, it was Christmas. More or less. Warm fuzzies reputedly abounded, even though he'd generally considered himself immune to seasonal cuddliness in the past. He decided he was still a qualified badass as long as he didn't wear some hideous sweater with reindeer on it, or some kind of argyle pattern.

Bones had succumbed to that particular virus some time ago. He'd also succumbed to a drinking binge, because apparently being away from home at Christmas when you had a kid was depressing as hell, and so his sweater-clad self was mumbling something vaguely medical-sounding to the surface of his table now.

"Hang on a minute," Jim instructed Spock, putting down his mug and standing. "I'm going to take Bones to his quarters before he pukes on anyone."

"An advisable course of action," Spock replied. Then he took another long drink from his mug. Jim left him to it as he went over to the good doctor and poked the side of his head.

"Dammit," Bones grumbled absently, swatting at his hand. "I'm a doctor, not a… a… uhh… little help?"

Jim thought about it. "Pincushion?" he suggested.

Bones snorted. "You're terrible at this, Jim. Last time I ask _you_ to fill it in. 'Pincushion' my ass…"

Well, that conjured up a whole lot of unwelcome mental images.

"Sorry," Jim replied. "But as much as I like you, Bones, you're not really my type. I think Spock would take offence, too," he reasoned, and then leaned over, slinging one of the doctor's arms onto his shoulders and helping him out of his chair.

Bones gave him a bleary look. "Are you talking about sex?" he asked in an accusatory fashion. Then he blinked as Jim began carting him across the mess hall. "Wait, why the hell am I even asking?"

"It's a mystery to us all," Jim assured him.

His friend responded by burping loudly into his ear.

All told it took about ten minutes to get Bones to his quarters, and Jim left him to mutter to himself and sleep it off. There wasn't really much else he could do for him. Misery might love company, but the doctor generally preferred to be alone when he was feeling that sullen about things.

When he got back to the mess hall, Spock had finished his glass of cocoa, and was on to drinking Jim's.

Jim gave him an amused look. "Thief," he accused playfully, honestly delighted that his first officer had taken the liberty of stealing his drink. He couldn't have said _why_, except that it was an incredibly human thing of him to do, and he mentally noted that Spock liked chocolate.

Apparently, _a lot_. He downed the last of Jim's mug, and turned to look at him, his skin a little more flushed than usual and his eyes bright. Lowering the empty drinking vessel back onto the table with a soft 'thunk', he then, to Jim's shock, smacked his lips a little, and gave something of an unsteady wobble.

"I ap… apple… apologize, Jim," he slurred a bit. "I did not think you would ob… object."

After a moment, Jim cast his gaze down to the mugs, and then looked back up at Spock's face.

"… No way," he said. "There wasn't a drop of booze in either one of those. You can't be hammered!"

Spock's eyebrows slanted at a somewhat comical, uncommon angle as he tilted his head to one side, a little wobbly. "Indeed I have not been hampered. That would be… be most _illogical_… there are no hamsters in the mess hall."

Okay. Now Jim was pissed. He gave Spock's shoulder a comforting pat and then stood up, looking around the room. "Who the hell spiked the commander's drink?" he demanded hotly, and the activities in the room stilled as everyone turned to look at them.

There was a pause.

Then Uhura spoke up. "Oh no…" she said, realization showing in her face as she raised a hand to her mouth, and looked like she was holding back laughter. "You gave him chocolate, didn't you?"

Jim was glad that he wasn't the only person who shot her a look of utter confusion. Swiftly, she elaborated, moving her gaze to Spock as her mouth twitched uncontrollably. "Vulcans get drunk on chocolate," she explained. "But he should have known that – did you tell him what it was?"

Jim ran their conversation through his head. 'What is this, Jim?', 'It's a traditional holiday drink', 'I am unfamiliar with this beverage, are you certain it is suitable?', 'Nobody puts _meat_ in their drinks around here, Spock'.

"…Not exactly," he admitted guiltily.

Spock reached a hand up and closed it on top of the one that was still resting on his shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. "Do not concern yourself," he advised, and if he hadn't been so wobbly he would have sounded perfectly normal. "I appear to be ineb… eb… inebriated. This is _fascinating_! I have never exper… experienced in-tox-i-ca-tion before!"

Then he looked over at Jim, and _grinned_.

Jim's stomach melted onto the floor.

"Ohhh," Spock said, looking Jim up and down. "Are we ret... retra... retiring to your quarters now?"

A pause.

His first officer decided to elaborate. "To engage in sex-u-al inter… interrupt… intercourse?"

There was a moment of dead, utter silence in the mess hall.

Chekov snickered, before Sulu – who looked like he was doing a bad job of holding in laughter himself – clapped a hand over his friends' mouth.

Jim still hadn't recovered enough to answer when Spock added, "I would not object to that."

Which was practically the Vulcan equivalent of him standing up and shouting across the room that he wanted to have sex with his captain now, please, if it wasn't too much trouble.

Well, he was never one to deny a reasonable request. It was probably a better idea than staying in the mess hall and letting Spock embarrass himself, too. Picking his stomach up off the floor, Jim cleared his throat, and then gave his first officer his best, sexiest smile. "Sure, Spock. Let's go," he agreed, moving to help him stand in much the same fashion as he'd done for Bones.

He'd only just shifted slightly, however, when Spock rose – a bit unsteady, but still obviously capable of managing it – and grabbed the front of Jim's shirt. He then proceeded to walk for the exit, tugging his captain along behind him.

"Uh, bye!" Jim managed to say into the silent, watching mess hall, and waved before he was dragged out of the room and down into the corridor towards the turbolift.

Spock, it seemed, was on a mission now. A weaving, wobbly, but very determined mission.

When the lift doors had closed behind them, his first officer promptly got them moving towards C-Deck, and then leaned over, wrapped himself heavily around Jim, and slumped against him.

A little alarmed, Jim placed a hand against his back. "You alright?" he asked.

"I appear to be suf-fer-ing difficulties in co… cooper… coordinating myself," Spock replied.

"Dizzy?" Jim clarified.

"Mmm." The confirmation rumbled against him, almost like a purr as Spock turned a little and began to _nuzzle_ the corner of Jim's neck. Then his first officer let out a heartfelt sigh, the breath warm against his skin, and reached for one of his hands, entwining their fingers together and essentially melting against him.

Apparently, he was a friendly drunk.

"Jim."

He took a steadying breath, because as fun as it would be, he didn't much care for the idea of trying to get a thoroughly out-of-it Spock dressed again if they just started going at it in the turbolift. "Yeah?" he asked.

Spock's thumb started moving in lazy circles against the back of his hand. "I did not have a direct purp… purple… purpose in stating your name. Jim."

"…Okay…"

"Jim, Jim, Jim. It is mon… mono-syllabic. Jim."

"I guess it is, Spock," He replied, running a hand across his first officer's back, and wondering if Vulcan's vomited when they were chocolate-drunk. He really hoped not. He'd already been puked on by Sam, Bones, a drunken Scotty, Uhura exiting a flight simulator, and a terrified Chekov in his life, and it was a pattern of behavior he didn't want to see extend any further than that. Sulu and Spock were the only other friends he had who hadn't spewed on him yet.

"I will not vomit."

Jim gave Spock a skeptical look which he didn't see. "Are you reading my mind?" he asked, with just a touch of indignation to his voice. He wasn't supposed to do that without his permission, after all.

"I like your mind," Spock informed him, and he found the genuineness and uncommon openness to that tone made it hard for him to stay annoyed. "It is warm. Iron… ironically so, considering your body tem… tempera… temperament… no, tem-per-a-ture."

It was strangely adorable listening to him force himself to carefully pronounce the large words of his vocabulary, rather than simply use shorter substitutes.

"I know," Jim said, and all he really could do was shake his head at this whole thing. "I'm hot _and_ cool at the same time. It's amazing."

Spock made an awkward, rumbling kind of laugh against him, which caught him utterly off-guard. He'd _never_ heard Spock laugh before. It froze him up and caused a warm bloom of affection and attachment to ignite inside his chest, and the next moment he'd wrapped his arms tightly around his first officer and buried his face against him, because he loved Spock as he was, but he would also take every laugh he could get.

Yup. He was a badass marshmallow.

"Are you aware of what I find… what is… what I like about humans, Jim?" Spock asked him, and right as he did, the doors to the turbolift opened. A very surprised ensign was greeted by the sight of her captain and commander cuddling one another. Jim quickly mustered all the stern, captainly pride he could manage under the circumstances, and silently guided Spock into the corridor.

At least _he_ didn't get tugged along this time.

"No," he said. "What do you like about humans, Spock?"

Spock decided to answer first by planting a kiss against his temple. Jim estimated that about three passing crewmembers had seen that. "If I am to fail as a Vulcan and… and show emotion around you, you view it as a pos… possess… positive. It is backwards-land."

He really shouldn't have been surprised. Spock quoted people all the time – he liked throwing them off-guard with it – and intellectually, he knew both he himself and several members of the crew had jokingly referenced 'backwards-land' at a few points in the past. But frankly, that was too hysterical not to crack him up. So crack he did, laughing hard and suddenly, and the next thing he knew they were both leaning against the side of the corridor, and Spock was hanging off of him and making a sound that was low and friendly and, again, kind of like purring.

"Backwards-land," Spock repeated, and then he exhaled gustily and wound his arms around Jim's chest, twining their arms together and molesting his ear with his tongue.

_Definitely_ a friendly drunk.

"Spock," Jim reminded him, once he'd caught his breath and noticed a young man dressed in science blues who'd just walked into a bulkhead nearby. "We're not in my quarters yet."

"Obviously," Spock replied, and the unexpected clarity of his tone caught Jim off-guard, and made him laugh again.

"What I mean is, I think I'll have to write us both up for indecent public displays if this goes much further," Jim elaborated.

"That is bullshit, Jim," Spock informed him.

Jim nearly _died_. If he kept laughing this hard, he had a feeling he'd lose a lung.

"You would not give either of us more than a firm… infirm… informal reprimand."

Well, he had him there.

Then Spock shifted, pressing their cheeks together, and added, "I also have it on good authoritative… authority that I am frequency engaging in sex… sexual… sleeping with the captain. Favor… favoritism is on our side."

Oh, god. Jim hoped he could get Spock to eat chocolate again. Having the inhibitors between his brain and his behavior break down was just too awesome to only do this once.

"He _does_ seem kind of attached to you."

"Excessively. I find my own judge… judgment syllabically comprised."

"…I think you mean 'similarly compromised'."

"I do?"

"Only if you want that sentence to make any sense."

Jim tried to tug his first officer down the corridor, but Spock seemed to have other ideas. He redoubled his grip on him, instead, and pulled them both down to the floor against the wall, burying his face in Jim's hair. "Dizzy," he said, by way of explanation.

"Then stop yanking me around," Jim advised in fond exasperation. "I'll get us there."

"This location seems ade… adequa… aqueduct," Spock retorted, and where their skin met, Jim could feel little pinpricks of his nausea and disorientation. He let out a breath and leaned his head against the corridor wall behind him, still attempting to look captainly at the crewmembers that went past. This _would_ have to happen during the Maintenance department's shift change, wouldn't it?

Reaching over, he slung an arm around Spock's shoulders, and coaxed his inebriated first officer into resting his head against his chest until his universe stopped spinning. He knew what it was like to be off-your-ass drunk. Still. It made it difficult to paint the picture of the authoritative captain when his commander was snuggling into his shirt and murmuring the periodic table of elements under his breath. He didn't see any cameras, but he knew in his _soul_ that photos of this would be getting around by morning.

"Damn, Spock," he said. "I've never heard of a man who couldn't hold his chocolate before."

"Ununhexium."

"How in the hell did you spit _that_ out?" he asked lightly, running a hand in slow circles against Spock's back. He earned himself a soft sound that seemed midway between being appreciative and anxious, and then Spock pulled back, and Jim's only warning was the slightly alarmed look on his face before he found his uniform covered in vomited chocolate.

Spock looked deeply apologetic.

Jim sighed. "I guess this means Sulu's my favorite now," he said jokingly. Immediately, he decided it was the wrong comment to make when his first officer's expression fell even further. He reached an arm towards him. "No, joking, that was a joke," he assured him. Then he carefully pulled off the top shirt of his uniform – because wearing puke wasn't exactly his favorite pastime – and extended the Vulcan 'kiss' gesture to Spock.

It took him a couple of tries, but Spock managed to return it, although he still looked very embarrassed and remorseful.

"I apple guess," he said.

"Apologize?"

"Yes. You are very intelligent, Jim," his first officer informed him with feeling.

Jim grinned, and then stood up, offering a hand to help him to his feet. "I know," he assured him. Spock wobbled a bit, and leaned against him as the captain resumed his mission to escort him to his quarters. He was pretty sure that sex would not be happening now. Nausea and arousal did not good bedfellows make.

"I am apricot of your deductive skills."

"My mad logic astounds you?"

"Yes. The sex is good, too."

Jim laughed so hard it hurt, and somehow, at the same time, managed to keep both his own balance and Spock's. He was relieved when they made it to his quarters, though, and he raised the room's temperature and shoved his shirt down the laundry chute. Carefully, he lowered Spock onto his bed, and then changed the rest of his clothes so he was only wearing a light pair of pants. Spock was struggling to get his boots off by the time he finished.

"It is illogical to construe such convex fo… for… footwear," Spock said darkly to himself, and Jim could only shake his head and then move to help pull them off.

"Very illogical," he agreed. "But then, you know how I feel about clothing with complicated fastenings." On that note, he winked.

"You enjoy the challenge," Spock replied, calling him out without missing a beat, before he curled himself into his blankets with a clumsy inefficiency that he never would have demonstrated under any other circumstances.

The rampant domesticity continued as Jim moved over and got Spock properly into the bed. An arm snaked around his waist and pulled him onto the mattress as well, and he thought to himself, _damn, it's like what, nine o'clock?_ But he couldn't really bring himself to mind, even though Spock's breath stank and this was, frankly, pure and unadulterated snuggling of the most blatant kind. He shifted himself so he was on his side, and thereby at least avoided the unpleasantness of Vulcan vomit-mouth – much as he loved Spock, he was only human – and a pair of arms worked around his stomach. He felt the familiar flutter of a heartbeat against his lower back. Breath by his ear. His first officer got all the blankets, but that was alright, because he the room was too warm for him anyway.

"I'm still a total badass," he insisted to the pillow.

Spock – usually a quiet sleeper – began to snore lightly against the back of his neck.

Jim heaved a defeated sigh.


	7. A Captain's Guide

A Captain's Guide to Alternate Timelines and Subsequent Weirdness

By James T. Kirk

_So you've found yourself screwing around with the space-time continuum, huh? Maybe there's been some kind of dimensional rift. Maybe some asshat from the future has taken his gigantic mining ship and blown up a planet and shit. These things happen, we've all got to accept it – but when the storm has blown over, pressing issues remain. So the question is, what the hell do you do now?_

Q: _I've heard that meeting your alternate self from the future will destroy the fabric of reality. Is this true?_

A: No. But do what the old man says anyway, 'cause he's got like a hundred years of doing this kind of fucked up bullshit under his belt, so he's probably on the ball.

Q: _Time travel seems a little unbelievable. What's a good way to prove that someone actually is from the future/another dimension?_

A: Mind-melds. Always keep a Vulcan handy, or some kind of other brain-tastic telepath. I guess Vulcans are kind of rare now. You can't have mine, though, so go find a Betazoid or something.

Q: _Okay, but supposing I don't have a telepath on my crew, then what?_

A: Here's a good rule of thumb – the crazier it sounds, the truer it probably is. That goes double if right off the bat somebody says 'but that's impossible!'. Also, make some shit up and see if they can call you on it. If they're from another dimension, how the hell do they know we aren't ruled by a council of sentient brains that thrive of the flesh of llamas?

Q: _Temporal paradox – if a person goes back in time and changes history, shouldn't that, subsequently, change the fact that they went back in time at all, and thereby negate itself? Are all actions meant to occur, or is it actually possible to change the past?_

A: There are many divergent theories on this subject. Some speculate that any and all changes to the past necessitate the creation of an alternate timeline that exists independently of the timeline from which the time traveler originates. Others that, yes, any changes to a timeline which does _not_ exist in a parallel dimension are actions which, by their nature, must occur, and are unavoidable in their consequences – history was _made_ because an individual went back in time, not _changed_. Then there is also the theory that any individual transported back in time cannot negate their _own_ existence, but can potentially negate the existence of their own timeline – essentially transferring the matter and substance of their own being back through history, but destroying everything else they left behind. These possibilities are not mutually exclusive, either.

Q: _…What?_

A: Alternate timelines. It's the one everyone goes with.

Q: _Alright, so say I've got someone from the future with me. They've got a lot of information that would probably be useful. Should I ask them stuff, or should I try to preserve history?_

A: Their history's _your_ future, and they've already messed it up just by going back in time. I say you get your datapad ready and start taking notes. Unless you think they'd rather keep it to themselves – don't be a dick about it. That's not cool.

Q: _What should I do if I find out that my alternate self did something? Should I try and do the same thing?_

A: If you want to.

Q: _No, seriously. Like say it was something life-changing, but I'm kind of on the fence about whether or not I want my life to change that way?_

A: Make up your mind. Fuck, it isn't warp mechanics, genius. Who cares what another you did? Do the same thing, do a different thing. Whatever, it's still your life.

Q: _What if I find out that in the future, a friend of mine is going to die doing something really heroic? Should I let it happen, because of the heroic nature of their act, or should I stop it, and risk causing a disaster?_

A: I'll go with the third option – stop the disaster before it happens.

Q: _But what if that isn't an option?_

A: Make it an option.

Q: _But what if I don't have enough information about the impending disaster?_

A: What, so you can only figure shit out if someone from the future tells you about it now? Start with what you know and work from there. You're the _captain_. This is your job.

Q: _It's my job to prevent impending disasters of which I know only the faintest details?_

A: Yes.

Q:_ I guess that settles that. So, say I have two alternate versions of a crewmember – one's good, and one's evil, but I can't tell them apart. What should I do?_

A: Sounds like it's time for a good old-fashioned mindfuck.

Q: _Can't you be a little more specific than that?_

A: What, you want me to do all the work for you? Alright, fine. If the crewmember's a friend of yours, try asking them a question that only they'd know the answer to. Like which buttock your birthmark's on, or how many shots of tequila it takes to put you under the table. Or, it's possible that if they're really noble, they'll do that whole 'you have to shoot us both' thing. Just for kicks, go ahead and shoot them both – but make sure the phaser's set on stun first.

Q: _Helpful. Alright, so supposing I have two versions of a crewmember, and neither one's evil, but they don't get along. What then?_

A: See if a kinky three-way is completely out of the question. That's the first order of business. I mean, how many times are you going to get an opportunity like that?

Q: _...And then?_

A: Hmm? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about stuff.

Q: _…**Well?**_

A: Right, right, sorry. So if the whole three-way thing doesn't pan out, or, you know, after it _does_, maybe just try and keep them separate until you can send the other one back.

Q:_ It __seems like it would be easy to get confused under those kinds of circumstances. Got any tips for keeping track of alternate universe/timeline individuals?_

A: I'm guessing if they come from another timeline, you should have some kind of age-gap to go off of. Also, most alternate universe selves come with traits – goatees, scars, eye-patches, differently styled hair, funny clothes, etc. – that can be used to differentiate. But if they really are just identical, that's what indelible ink is for. I recommend labeling them 'Mine' and 'Spare' on their foreheads right off the bat, but you can go with whatever you prefer.

Q: _Alright, changing tracks, what should I do if I find myself in an alternate timeline or dimension?_

A: Try and get back to your timeline. Obviously. Maybe take the opportunity to read up on temporal and inter-dimensional physics _before_ this shit happens, so you're ready to go when it does.

Q: _But what if I have critical information about the future that could save billions of lives?_

A: What, you mean like knowing a planet's going to explode in about a hundred years? Wing it.

Q: _'Wing it'?_

A: Well, yeah. Play it by ear. Go with your gut. Worst case scenario, you create an alternate timeline with a billion fewer dead people.

Q: _You're really sure I couldn't just accidentally wipe out my own existence?_

A: Well, maybe you could erase yourself from your history, so that when you get back to your own timeline nobody remembers you. But I think that's worth a billion lives. Plus, clean slate – that stuff you wish had never happened in highschool actually never happened now!

Q: _But wouldn't that cause me a lot of psychological trauma and pain? Seeing people I know, but who have never known me? Having all of the good stuff in my history erased with the bad?_

A: Billions. Of. Lives. Now quit your fucking whining and have fun messing with your old/new friends' heads by telling them their alternate selves did shit they never did. Tell two enemies that they used to go at it like it was Pon Farr in the turbolift every day, convince the sexy bridge officer that you were having an illicit love affair with them, go nuts. Consider it compensation.

Q: _Last question. Say you get to another time or dimension – or both – and you find out it's paradise. Is it cool to stay there?_

A: Depends on what you'd leave behind.

---

**Author's Note:** Another snack for you guys. The next chapter of 'Home' will be up either tomorrow, or the day after, barring any unforeseeable disasters. Thanks to everyone for all the support!


	8. After the Influence

Spock awoke to a myriad of negative sensations. Most of them appeared to be centered on his head, which was being subjected to a disorienting level of pain that made concentration difficult. He was also aware of an unpleasant taste lingering in his mouth, which, after a moment, he was able to identify as bile. He was ill? Carefully, he attempted to take stock of the rest of his body, but the pain in his skull made focusing incredibly difficult. He tried to recall the events leading him up to his current state of being…

And could not. The last thing he remembered was watching Jim leave the mess hall with Dr. McCoy. Had he fallen unconscious? Before he could suppress it, he felt the briefest trill of alarm, which quieted after a moment – not because he regained his focus. No, his concentration was still suffering from the headache he seemed unable to suppress. But he became aware of where, approximately, he was. There was a mattress beneath him, and a figure in his arms – familiar, and slightly too warm, which meant he had probably been holding him for too long. The sleepy, dull thread of contact which came through their touch, golden and soft and reassuring in its presence. _T'hy'la_.

Instinctively, Spock reached for that contact. Which proved to be a poor idea, as the pounding in his head multiplied its intensity, and he couldn't help broadcasting himself to a certain degree.

The sentiment was essentially: 'Jim. Ow.'

There was a shifting in his arms. Spock relinquished his hold, trying fervently to gain control over the sharp, knife-like pains in his own skull. A pair of cool hands came around his face, thumbs gently moving along the arches of his brows and then rubbing his temples in slow, soft circles.

"Feel like shit, huh?" a soft voice said, and Spock didn't bother to open his eyes, or make much of a confirmation. "Sorry. I guess it's my fault. You don't know any good Vulcan hang-over remedies, do you?"

Hang-over remedies? He reassessed the situation. He was experiencing a myriad of unpleasant physical sensations that would be in keeping with mild poisoning. The night before, he could distinctly recall being provided with an unfamiliar beverage – and now that he was considering it, he remembered that humans often incorporated chocolate into the celebratory foods. He had also never mentioned the substance's intoxicating effects on Vulcans to Jim. Primarily this had been intended to serve as a precaution against his tendencies towards mischief. Had Jim learned of his susceptibility on his own, or had it simply been an accident?

Spock opened his mouth to speak, and his voice rasped as it came out. "I was intoxicated?" he asked.

Sympathy, tinged with hints of guilt and embarrassment made themselves known through his connection to Jim.

"You should have told me about the chocolate thing," Jim said, his tone defensive. "I wouldn't have left you alone with that stuff if I'd have known. We could have just got quietly drunk in my quarters."

Spock was feeling highly disoriented. He was unused to experiencing gaps in his memory. Combined with his inability to concentrate and the growing complaints from his mouth and stomach, he found himself extremely out-of-sorts. And broadcasting. His mental shields were difficult to maintain without a certain level of focus, like trying to close a hand after a night spent sleeping with the digits spread apart. It would be easier to manage if Jim wasn't touching his temples like that. But he was, and Spock wondered what his perception was of the signals of _hurt, disoriented, sick, negative, pain,_ that he was sending out would be.

"S'Okay," Jim said, still in an unusually quiet tone of voice, and Spock assessed that anything louder would likely antagonize his pain. He was certain, then, that the quiet tone was intentional. A pair of cool lips pressed against his brow. "I'll go see if Chapel or whoever's in sickbay knows what to give a hung-over Vulcan. Wait here."

The touch against him was retracted, then, and he heard the rustling of movement, the shuffle of clothing being pulled on. He opened his eyes to the darkened room, and perceived Jim's silhouette moving in the dimness. For a moment he wondered why he had not simply turned on the lights. Then he recalled – ah, yes. Light could exacerbate headaches. Jim was being considerate. For all his claims to the contrary, he very often was.

There was a straightening, a sigh, and then the soft swish and a brief streak of light as Jim exited the quarters. Spock had not intended to move from his current position – he didn't care to test his muscle control at that point. However, as the seconds ticked by a few pressing needs made themselves known. He had apparently consumed a substantial amount of fluid the night before. Additionally, there was a rising sense of nausea flooding his system, and he estimated the probability of his stomach attempting to expel its contents to be high. So, with care, he slid himself to the side of the bed, and stood.

Disorientation. The ship felt as though its internal gravity systems were malfunctioning, causing an unpleasant, swaying sensation. His nausea increased. He reached a hand out, seeking purchase against the nearest wall, and waited for the worst of the sensation to pass. Once it had, he made his way to the bathroom, stumbling once over a carelessly discarded piece of clothing.

Activating the lights proved to be as detrimental to the sensations in his skull as he anticipated. A sharp pain assaulted him, forcing him to close his eyes and lean against the door, waiting until he could focus beyond it again. If the pain had not been in his head, it would simpler. Then he could restructure his receptiveness to it, force himself to ignore it more easily. But given that the pain was eroding his concentration, and ability to do just that, he was particularly susceptible to it.

Sometimes, he could not help but marvel at Jim's ability to manage his own physical injuries, given that he didn't possess a Vulcan mind. For him, every pain was as this pain. Inescapable.

Musing on that was inappropriate and ineffective considering the setting, however, so Spock turned his attention towards opening his eyes, very carefully, to the light of the bathroom. He tended to his needs with awkward discomfort, taking the opportunity to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.

It was an unpleasant turn of events that he should then vomit again immediately afterwards. He was unaccustomed to such bodily reactions. He cleaned his mouth out a second time, however, and exited the bathroom. The darkness was physically relieving to him in many ways, and he returned to the bed, fighting another bout of disorientation as he lowered himself down. It was difficult to approximate the time, considering the gap in his memory. Unpleasant. What was the appeal of intoxication? It appeared to be an entirely negative experience.

A moment later he heard the soft swish of the door opening, and a brief cascade of light heralded Jim's return. Spock raised a hand to protect himself from the brightness seeping through his eyelids. It didn't last long. Footsteps approached, and then there was the gentle slope of the mattress, and cool fingers running gently along the side of his face. Remorse, sorrow, apology. He caught Jim's hand in his own, and felt a familiar, relieving surge at the contact, warming him despite the temperature of the flesh beneath his fingers. Warming him against all logical reason.

"They didn't have anything I could give you," Jim said, and his grip tightened briefly in a purely human gesture of comfort. "Guess you're off-duty today. It's my fault, anyway," he repeated.

"It was intentional?" Spock asked, and knew the answer from the touch in his grasp before Jim voiced it.

"No! Come on, do you think I'd do that?" his voice raised above the quiet volume he'd been keeping it at, and Spock reflexively flinched as the pain in his skull was further exacerbated.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, but that didn't seem to improve matters much. Jim retracted his hand.

"Once," he said.

The circumstances surrounding his current state of consciousness left Spock too disoriented to try his hand at deciphering the complexities of human behavior. "'Once'?" he questioned simply.

Jim sighed. "That's how many times I've taken advantage of you in a compromised state. And _that_ time, you strangled me for it."

Spock risked opening his eyes again. He regarded Jim carefully, and assessed his comment. Yes, it was true, his reticence in sharing the nature of chocolate's effects on his system was unmerited. It was not that he was mistrustful of Jim. Perhaps it was more that he over-estimated his capacity for mischief, at times. He knew that Jim enjoyed provoking unrestrained responses from him, and that, as a human, he was prone to acting on impulses of positive emotion. It was sometimes difficult to gauge where his restraint would come into play, and where it wouldn't. Intoxication was humiliating, but primarily harmless.

"If it was not intentional, then it was not your fault," he reasoned. "The responsibility lies with me for failing to provide you with pertinent information regarding my physiology."

There was a pause. Then another sigh.

"Damn, Spock, you just never give up on being long-winded, do you?" Jim asked him lightly, and he knew the matter was dropped. A shifting of fabric and motion, a press of lips against his temple. "I have to be on the bridge soon. I'll… dammit. I'm still a badass!"

Spock regarded Jim solemnly, but couldn't help the softly simmering bubble of confusion and amusement at this statement. The progression of their relationship had produced a certain contentment between them, yet this was occasionally punctuated, of late, with such comments. He suspected that the consistently domestic behavior did not fit well with Jim's self-image. "You are undeniably insufficient as an ass," he reasoned. There was, after all, very little about him which could be likened to the native Earth animal. Though he knew full well that it wasn't the correct context. His response produced its intended result, however, when Jim laughed. Just once, and quietly, but extremes would have been painful for his headache to endure, so that was probably for the best.

"Try and sleep it off," Jim advised him finally, and with one last, welcome trail of fingers across his brow, departed.

Left to peaceful solitude again, Spock decided to take that piece of advice.

It was several hours before he felt sufficiently rested and restored to begin resuming some of his normal activities. Thirst was a pressing issue, quickly resolved. His disheveled state was another, and so he moved over to the clothing cabinet and retrieved one of his spare uniforms from inside it, placed it neatly on the bed, and then showered, changed, and concluded that hunger was the next matter requiring resolution. Afterwards, he saw no issue in resuming his duties. There was only a mild, unpleasant pressure behind his forehead now, and he was certain that would not unduly hinder him.

At first he paid little mind to the crewmembers he passed on his way to the mess hall. But after a few minutes, he became aware of a pattern of behavior – they would regard him cautiously, then swiftly look away. If they were accompanying another member of the crew, quiet laughter and hushing might also be exchanged.

From what he knew of human behavior, Spock surmised that he had become an object of speculation and, to some extent, ridicule.

He correctly identified the emotion he was having difficulties suppressing as dread.

Jim had only confirmed that he had been inebriated. Inebriation was known to remove inhibitions, and cause erratic behavior. He had been in a public location when he had consumed the liquid chocolate. The likelihood that he had conducted himself in an inappropriate manner was high. This was not promising. As first officer, it was required that the crew respect him and his capacities in a leadership position. His behavior could have a detrimental impact on his relationships with his co-workers, and through that, his career in Starfleet.

His suspicions gained further supporting evidence when he actually entered the mess hall, and noted the number of speculative gazes turned in his direction. There was sudden activity at one of the far tables. Ensign Chekov had quickly relocated his hands for the purpose of concealing something under his table.

Reaching an internal conclusion, Spock strode towards the young tactician and his dining companion. Both stilled at his approach. Mr. Sulu, as was his habit, was making a valiant attempt at camouflaging himself by remaining very, very still, as if he suspected that Spock's vision was primarily motion-based. Mr. Chekov was avoiding his gaze and attempting to keep his expression bereft of guile.

"Ensign," he said, drawing to a halt at a respectable, if slightly intimidating, distance. He raised an eyebrow, the gesture mostly unconscious. "May I inquire as to what you are concealing from view?"

Mr. Chekov's response was to look up at him, swallow, and after a brief internal debate, quickly smack something down on the table. Then he declared in a somewhat hasty tone of voice, "run, Sulu!" and fled from the mess hall.

Spock's eyes were at his hairline as he observed this abrupt departure. When it became apparent that Mr. Chekov had gone, with no intention of returning, he shifted his gaze over to Mr. Sulu. Who, at least, seemed to have retained enough sanity to remain sitting. He appeared to be inwardly debating the wisdom of that decision. Particularly when Spock's attention turned from him to the glossy, printed photo resting on the table.

After a moment, he extended a hand, and lifted the image up for closer inspection. It depicted a corridor on C-Deck. He and Jim were both, for reasons unclear, sitting on the floor and leaning against one of the walls next to a bulkhead. By the angle, Spock suspected that the picture had come from the security systems. Jim had his head leaned back, one arm around his first officer, hand splayed in a gesture of comfort as Spock rested against his chest. The captain was glaring sternly at something off-camera, his demeanor stern, and somewhat… protective. There was a rare openness to Spock's own features, his hands wound in Jim's shirt, his state clearly disoriented and deeply attached.

He looked over at Mr. Sulu, who was regarding him with a certain obvious level of anxiety. Then, wordlessly, he tucked the picture into one of the interior pockets of his uniform, and proceeded to retrieve his midday meal. He had taken a seat at an empty table before Nyota entered the mess hall. She joined him, giving him a concerned glance as she slid gracefully into the chair across from him.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Spock inclined his head in an affirmative gesture. "I am suffering only mild repercussions from my error," he replied.

Nyota regarded him for a moment, and then shook her head. "Do you remember it?" she asked.

"I do not," he confirmed, pushing back the niggling sense of discomfort that such a concept brought with it. The discomfort was pointless. He couldn't change the facts of his situation through it, however unsettling the gap in his memory was. Nyota's expression did little to aid him in this endeavor.

She shifted slightly in her seat, toying with her utensil and her food for a moment before deciding upon a response. "It could have been worse."

He regarded her steadily, well aware of that fact. "Indeed," he said. "I have at least confirmed that I managed to retain my clothing, for, presumably, the duration of the experience." He had perfect memories of when _Jim_ had gotten drunk in the past, after all, and shirts seemed to become inexplicably offensive to him at some point during the process. If he had made it to C-Deck fully clothed, then it was likely he had been able to reach the captain's quarters without expressing a similar aversion.

Nyota gave a slight cough, and averted her gaze. "_Yeees,_ that's true, you didn't strip," she agreed. "You _did_ proposition the captain kind of loudly while everyone was looking at you, though."

Spock paused, considering this. Inebriation removed inhibitions and reduced an individual's capacity for making reasonable judgments. Had he been inclined towards seeking more intimate company with Jim – and he was rarely _averse_ to such an idea – then it seemed likely he simply would have voiced such a request. Logical, if socially inappropriate.

"I didn't see the rest of it," Nyota continued. "But from what I've heard, that's the worst of it. Well, that and you… more or less got really _affectionate_ with him on the way to his quarters. There are some pictures going around…" she trailed off.

He nodded. "I have seen an example," he confirmed.

This, also, was not terribly surprising. Without concern for social decorum and behavior, and with impaired judgment, he could not reasonably be expected to resist his impulses.

Still, the images posed a problem. In all likelihood they had seen a widespread circulation through the ship's crew by now. The worst of the damage had already been done. However, he could not allow his accidental indiscretions to become a long-term source of amusement, or else it would hinder his capacities in a command position. A show of discipline would have to be made. Sharing security footage with unauthorized personnel was against regulations – he would have to discuss this with Lieutenant-Commander Giotto.

The rest of the meal passed in what most humans would term an uncomfortable silence. Nyota made a few ineffectual attempts to redirect the conversation, but Spock found his attentions distracted, and so was not terribly encouraging in his responses. When his soup was finished, he stood, and with a farewell acknowledgment, made his way to resume his duties.

He stopped off briefly, however, at his quarters. There was still time before the scheduled dining period for the midday meal was over, and so it was not a hindrance to walk quietly inside, and slip the glossy photograph out of his pocket. Vulcans were often permitted, and even encouraged, to retain objects for themselves which promoted a sense of calm and tranquility. He could not honestly say that this was the effect which the picture had on him.

Nevertheless, he opened one of the lower drawers of his bedside containment unit, and withdrew a small black case that held, among other things, several images of his mother and his homeworld. All illogical items to keep, as they did _not_ promote a sense of tranquility in him. With care he opened the smooth lid and slipped the photograph inside it, the silvery tones of the ship's corridor standing out amidst the dusty reds of Vulcan. Then he closed it shut once again and returned it to its allotted section of the drawer, putting it from his mind as he exited his quarters.

Jim was leaving his own at the same time. He looked mildly perplexed, but then he noticed Spock, and his expression brightened.

Always so bright.

"Guess you're feeling better, huh?" he said, striding over and ignoring the unsubtle glances of a passing crewman. Spock inclined his head.

"My physical state is much improved. I had intended to return to the bridge and report for the rest of my duty shift, if you do not object?"

Jim gave him a considering look, searching his eyes for something. Then he shrugged. "If you're sure," he agreed. "We can head back together, in that case. I only came to see how you were making out anyway."

"If the rumours are to be believed, apparently I have been 'making out' with you," he quipped back, noting the stutter in Jim's steps, and the briefest rush of colour and amusement to his face. It only lasted for a moment, and then Jim regained himself, and walking alongside him, winked.

"We never really got that far, to be honest," he was informed.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?" he said. Most surprising, all things considered.

Jim nodded.

It seemed distinctly impolite of him to have propositioned so sensual a being as his captain and then failed to follow through.

"In that case, we shall have to rectify such inadequacies once our duty shift has been completed," he mused.

Jim grinned at him. "Well, I guess you _do_ have a reputation to live up to now," he agreed, the playful turn of his lips and the warm, alien tint of his complexion drawing Spock's attention like a moth to flame. He considered this comment.

"I shall endeavor to do it justice," he determined.

His conclusion was then punctuated by a soft 'bonk' as a passing science officer, who had been listening in on their conversation, walked into a nearby bulkhead.

---

**Author's Note:** I think the process of writing this one-shot counts as one of the single weirdest I've gone through. I fully intended to have it just be hilarious. But my first time writing it, for some reason it kept coming out all steamy and whatnot… and then I tried again, and got this. Which is further smush, as seems appropriate given the smushiness of the first part, so I'm going with it.


	9. Translation

A Vulcan and Human Conversational Guide

_Or 'How to Process Commentary Between Two Wildly Divergent Styles of Speech'._

By Captain James T. Kirk and Commander Spock

Comment: Good morning! It's a lovely day, isn't it?

_Translation, Spock: Greetings. I have noted that the environmental systems appear to be functioning adequately._

_Translation, Kirk: Hey._

Comment: Did you sleep well last night?

_Translation, Spock: Were you able to obtain the necessary six to eight hours of rest you require?_

_Translation, Kirk: You sleep okay?_

Comment: So, have you heard about that latest sports game? I can't believe that particular team won!

_Translation, Spock: Have you been informed of the results of a recent sporting event? The probability of its outcome was quite low._

_Translation, Kirk: Fuck, I'm not saying that._

_Translation, Spock: Your reticence to comment is perplexing. As I understand it, this is a normal line of social inquiry for most humans._

_Translation, Kirk: What kind of an idiot starts talking about sports first thing in the morning?_

_Translation, Spock: Presumably an individual with a significant level of enthusiasm for such activities._

_Translation, Kirk: What, so we're translating for some crazy sports-obsessed morning person?_

_Translation, Spock: Your assertion that the sanity of the individual should be called into question seems loosely based, but otherwise that assessment would appear accurate._

_Translation, Kirk: And you really have to ask why I'm not doing it?_

_Translation, Spock: Jim._

_Translation, Kirk: …Fine. 'Dammit, can you believe those assholes from Team Blue or what-the-fuck-ever actually won? Let's all go shoot them.'_

Comment: Ha! That's a good joke you just told there. Where did you hear it?

_Translation, Spock: You seem to have developed an impressive understanding of the human concept of humor. May I inquire as to where you obtained your source material?_

_Translation, Kirk: …Seriously, why are we translating comments out of Dickwad?_

_Translation, Spock: There are a wide variety of individuals in the universe, to discriminate harshly between translation efforts would be unwise._

_Translation, Kirk: You mean even Dickwads deserve to communicate?_

_Translation, Spock: Indeed._

_Translation, Kirk: I find that highly debatable. But whatever, fine. 'Ha, good one. Did you learn that from your grandma or something?'_

Comment: I notice you have a lot of cantaloupe on your plate! Do you enjoy eating melon for breakfast? **Oh, shit! There are Klingons firing at the ship! Red Alert! Everyone to your stations!**

_Translation, Spock: Jim. I do not believe it is appropriate to rewrite the commentary. It is Starfleet issued and approved._

_Translation, Kirk: Well, then they should be grateful that I'm improving it for them. Look! I'm even including more protocols!_

_Translation, Spock: The purpose of this paper is not to pose theoretical crisis situations, but to deal with day-to-day social communication issues._

_Translation, Kirk: And now it's multi-tasking! Isn't that fantastic?_

_Translation, Spock: Klingon assaults are not sufficiently 'day-to-day' for such a use._

_Translation, Kirk: Which ship have you been serving on? Because I don't know if you've noticed, but we have a hell of a lot more crisis situations onboard than we do cantaloupe and sports-talk._

_Translation, Spock: ...I see your point. Very well. 'Red Alert. All crewmembers to their stations. A Klingon enemy vessel has opened fire'._

Comment: That's interesting! I've always been more of a cereal person myself. How's your family back home? **Get down! Damn, half of engineering is gone! Scotty's _dead!_ We have to get the emergency forcefields up!**

_Translation, Spock: I take it that you are still displeased with Mr. Scott's recent attempts at improving ship's functions?_

_Translation, Kirk: No. Why?_

_Translation, Spock: I am certain that he was unaware that his experimentation with the transporter systems would cause a subsequent shipwide failure in the replication systems._

_Translation, Kirk: I'm not pissed at Scotty. I don't care. Accidents happen, he's allowed to experiment now and then. This is a strictly theoretical scenario. It doesn't have anything to do with the replicators going down for eight hours right when our supply of 'massage oil' ran out._

_Translation, Spock: If you insist. 'It is essential they we establish emergency forcefield systems. Mr. Scott has regrettably expired.'_

_Translation, Kirk: Damn straight he has._

Comment: Would you like to see some pictures I brought from my home town? **Oh no, the ship is falling apart at the seams! Quickly, someone go and get that dashing Captain Kirk – who I'd totally do if he wasn't already taken – to save the day!**

_Translation, Spock: I must profess some confusion, Jim. If you are the questioner, how can you request that someone retrieve you?_

_Translation, Kirk: What, that bugs you more than the idea of me doing myself?_

_Translation, Spock: I am already familiar with the human capacity for masturbation. It is less perplexing than the concept of requesting an officer to bring you into your own presence._

_Translation, Kirk: I'm just doing an impression of the questioner, Spock. Or maybe there are two of me? I mean, there are two of you, so why the hell not, right?_

_Translation, Spock: Perhaps, but would professing a sexual interest in your alternate self not qualify technically_ _as__ incestuous? I do not believe you are accurately reflecting your own character. You are not sexually depraved, regardless of past incidents of promiscuity._

_Translation, Kirk: Uh… thanks? I think._

_Translation, Spock: It is merely an observation. 'Retrieve the captain. His presence is required.'_

_Translation, Kirk: Hey, come on! You didn't mention how incredibly dashing I am!_

_Translation, Spock: That would be inappropriate conduct in a crisis situation._

_Translation, Kirk: Well, yeah, but… but… damn it!_

Comment: I'm looking forward to reporting to my duty shift. My commanding officer is very enthusiastic about our recent project. **Hooray, the shitstorm has passed! The ship's safe and everything's good. Now it's time for the mandatory hot sex between the captain and the first officer.**

_Translation, Spock: The crisis has been averted. It is fortunate that nowhere in Starfleet protocols does it imply that this would be an opportune moment for inappropriate conduct between commanding officers, given the extensive loss of life and repairs which require immediate attention._

_Translation, Kirk: But what if the captain really, really wants to have some inappropriate conduct?_

_Translation, Spock: Given the first officer's suspicions that this is, in fact, the captain's constant state of being, it should have no bearing on the situation._

_Translation, Kirk: We've just been through a lot of trauma. Sex can be therapeutic._

_Translation, Spock: We are writing out a form. The trauma is purely hypothetical._

_Translation, Kirk: So is the sex!_

_Translation, Spock: Once this form has been completed, that may no longer be the case._

Comment: Do you enjoy your tasks in your department, too, fellow shipmate?

_Translation, Spock: Do you derive a sense of satisfaction from your work?_

_Translation, Kirk: You like your job?_

Comment: Terrific! Maybe we could meet up after our duty shift is over for a rousing board game, or other friendly activity!

_Translation, Spock: It is fortuitous that you find enjoyment in your working environment. Perhaps you would be interested in indulging in a shared recreational activity once your shift has been completed?_

_Translation, Kirk: Great. We should hook up or something_.

Comment: It was a pleasure speaking with you. Let's do it again sometime.

_Translation, Spock: Your conversational skills are sufficient. I would not be adverse to a repeat incident._

_Translation, Kirk: Bye. _

---

Ten minutes later, Jim blinked as his hand accidentally hit his computer console, his attention distracted by the warmth of his first officer's mouth moving against him.

There was a beep.

It was a familiar beep. Recognizing this, Jim glanced over, and read two interesting little words flashing at him from the screen:

'Transmission Sent'.

"…Whoops."

---

**Author's Note:** I uploaded two chapters to Brain Matter at once, so if you've been hoping for a morning-after sequel to the chocolate incident, go back one 'cause you might have missed it.


	10. Bits and Pieces

**Author's Note:** Chapter thirty of 'Home' is taking awhile, just because it kind of is, so I put together this little collection of bits and ends that are basically just snippets of stray thoughts. Most are K/S, but some aren't. Also, most are funny, but some aren't. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and in the first snippet, the etymology is completely made-up, but the definition is true. Pronounciation's a guess.

---

Main Entry: _T'hy'la_

Pronunciation: _t-hai-la_

Function: _Noun_

Inflected Forms: N/A

Etymology: Old Vulcan, from _t'hy_, meaning 'comrade'.

1: An unrelated male with whom one shares a close personal tie.

2: A term of endearment between two men engaged in a committed sexual relationship.

Common Translations: _friend, brother, lover._

Spock found that he had a certain affinity towards the older words of the Vulcan language. They were the only native terms from his culture which seemed to apply to the majority of his relationships onboard the _Enterprise_. Sometimes he wondered if his humanity didn't bring him a little closer to the heart of Vulcan nature, which held a certain curiosity to him, even as dangerous and destructive as it could be. The savagery of Vulcan's past, which had nearly obliterated his people long before Nero had made his own effort, so strangely provided him with a peaceful contentment in its words.

"_T'hy'la_."

Jim looked over at him. "Yup?" he asked.

What a strange collection of complexities lay here.

---

"Hey, Chekov," Kirk asked, during one of those quiet shifts on the bridge, when they were in warp and there was nothing particularly pressing to do. A few quiet conversations had cropped up here and there. Sulu was in the process of seeing if he couldn't calculate a faster flight path for them, and the young ensign was glancing at the view screen rather contemplatively when the captain spoke up.

"Yes, Keptan?" he asked, turning back in his seat a little bit.

Leaning forward, Kirk fixed him with an intent look. Chekov wondered if this was going to be one of those times when the captain got An Idea, and they wound up doing things like slipping through alternate dimensions or defying standard warp mechanics. He hoped so. It was starting to get very boring.

"I've been wondering for a while – why do you have so much trouble pronouncing 'v' sounds? At first I thought it was your accent, but I was talking to Uhura and she said that most Russians have troubles with 'w', not 'v'. So what gives?"

Chekov shifted a bit, slightly embarrassed and a little uncomfortable. He coughed.

"That is not my accent, Keptan," he replied. "It is a speech impediment."

"Ohhh."

---

"Traditionally, Captain, given that I am both taller and older, I would appear to be the more suitable candidate."

"Yeah, but _I'm_ the captain, so it should be me. Plus you're the peace-loving vegetarian with the delicate hands."

"I am also in possession of considerably greater physical strength than you. Again, in a traditional setting, that would qualify myself for the position. Additionally, you are the more aesthetically appealing individual between us."

"Oh no you don't, _you're_ the pretty one. And besides, I'm more experienced. It should be me."

"It appears that we are at impasse."

"Maybe we should ask someone else," Jim suggested. Then he leaned over to the table next to them, and grabbed Dr. McCoy by the shoulder. "Hey, Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"Who should top tonight, me or Spock?"

"…_Goddamn you straight to hell, Jim!_ I can't believe that's actually what you two were talking about! My _brain_, man, _my brain!_ Do you know how important _thinking _is to my line of work?! I hope you **die** of some latent sexual disease that's been incubating in your body since you were sixteen! Die _in a painful agony of screaming fire!_"

"Okay, Bones, but that doesn't answer the question."

---

Uhura knew what it was like to be lonely. She was a friendly young woman, bright and intelligent, graceful and lovely. It often earned her a great deal of resentment from her peers. There was a whole package, and she had it – which, in theory, should have made her the most popular girl in her class. In reality, it meant that the smart girls resented her looks, the dumb girls resented her intelligence, no one understood her interests, and most of the guys she met were either intimidated to no end or else only wanted one thing.

So she knew what it was like.

Her gaze drifted across the restaurant, over to a small corner where her linguistics instructor was sitting, eating alone for the hundredth time she'd noted since the year began. He was solemn, massively intelligent and exuded 'unapproachable' qualities left and right. His eyes remained fixed on his plate, and he gave no outward sign of sorrow or discontentment.

Making up her mind, she glanced once around the restaurant, and its crowd of cadets, and then made her way over to his table.

There was an obvious cure for two people suffering from loneliness.

"Hi. Would you mind if I joined you?"

---

"I love you, Jim."

Jim sighed, and picked his friend up off of the floor of his dorm. "Yeah, Bones, I love you too," he said, shifting the older man so that he was lying on his bed. It was an awkward angle, but it was still probably more comfortable than the floor. Bones' roommate was busy ignoring them, earplugs jammed in and head bobbing as he apparently didn't give a shit that the doctor he shared living space with was trying to give himself alcohol poisoning.

"It's Joanna's birthday today. Did you know that?"

"No, but I probably should have guessed."

This really wouldn't do. Jim didn't know Bones' life story well enough to keep track of all of these drink-inducing anniversaries, and it was pretty hard to keep track of him when they didn't have any classes together.

With a sigh, he turned to look at the head-bopping moron on the other side of the room.

This was going to suck. He actually had a _single_. He'd drawn the lucky straw at the beginning of the year, dammit!

"Hey," he said. The guy ignored him. Annoyed, Jim strode forward, and yanked on his earplugs, pulling them loose.

"What the fuck, asshole?!" he snarled.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm messing with your shit. Listen. How would you like to have a single dorm?" Jim asked.

Well, somebody had to keep his friend from accidentally choking on his own vomit one of these days. After all, Jim only had the one of him.

---

The trick, Sulu decided, was getting the constant beam of energy to work without overloading the power circuits. There was a lot of potential here for blowing his hand off. But for some reason, the idea just _compelled_, and somehow or another it had come up over lunch with Chekov and Scotty, and now half of Engineering and a good quarter of the science department was in on it.

There were many bated breaths as he stood in the middle of the rec room.

"Go on, then," Scotty said.

Sulu nodded. Steeling himself, he held out his arm and hit the button on the side of the cylindrical device in his hand. There was a pause. Then an electronic _zing_ and _hum_, and an orange-red beam of phaser light extended from the end, holding its intensity in the approximate length and width of a sword.

There were 'oooh's, as well as several premature applause.

Then the handle overheated, burning against his palm, and with a curse, Sulu dropped the thing before it could explode in his grasp. The beam cut out. Everyone ducked and covered as a sharp whine filled the air, and the entire mechanism blew in a sudden burst of exploding parts.

Fortunately, the only damage done was a large scorch mark on the rec room floor.

After a moment of silence, there were several disappointed sighs.

Back to the drawing board again.

---

"There is one thing I must know," Spock said, as he stood with quiet intensity across from his alternate self.

"Then you may inquire, although I cannot guarantee I will answer," the older half-Vulcan replied.

"Romulus was to be destroyed because its sun was going supernova. Correct?"

"That is correct, yes."

"And your plan was to prevent this by injecting red matter into the supernova before it could destroy the planet. Also correct?"

"Indeed."

"May I ask how you intended for Romulus to then survive without its sun?"

"…No."

---

He kept seeing them. Everywhere he went. It was like they were unavoidable. Even down in the depths of his beloved Engineering, they haunted him, appearing at random in the oddest places and with no apparent cause. They simply _were_.

"Mr. Scott…" one of the lads said, and he glanced at him, knowing – as they all knew – to what he was referring.

"We'll just have to work around them, Ensign. It's part o' the job," he instructed, and everyone knew it was true. But they also knew that if there was a man who could find a way to get rid of them once and for all, it would be the chief engineer.

"Bloody lens-flares," Scotty grumbled, as another one glinted off of his console and forced him to squint one of his eyes shut.

---

…_Nero?_

He stood outside the captured shuttle. Its smooth Federation hull, outdated and bland, was starkly contrasted by the glittering darkness of the _Narada_. The ramp was lowered, revealing its interior, and the captured passengers within it. It was the third they'd managed to pull in with their long-range tractor beam, before the rest escaped. He'd already been to through the other two. Doing by hand what their damaged weapons systems hadn't been able to accomplish from a distance.

_Don't be gone too long this time._

The cowering medical personnel inside were pathetic to him. Even if they did not truly cower. Even if they stood, as Starfleet officers would, with a kind of rigid bravery to see things through. They had no chance. They were weak, spineless creatures, creatures of the _Federation_ which had promised to help them, but had failed in that promise. How foolish the Empire had been to put their faith in a former enemy.

Of course the Federation would not have helped. They would only make it look as though they had tried.

_Remember, when you get back…_

He stepped aboard the ship, ignoring the words spoken to him, requesting his mercy, his reasoning. He had neither of those things left. They had died in the flowering explosion of Romulus, along with everything he had ever known, or held dear. His fellow miners walked just beside him. Equally grim. Equally enraged. They would take their hatred in the blood of these Federation officers, little though it would be in comparison to their pain.

He raised his phaser and fired, the cabin of the shuttle filling with cries, the flash of light and the scent of burnt flesh. First the medical officers. Then he turned to the woman lying on the stretcher, pale and worn, her hair clinging to her face in yellow strands as she remained unconscious, lost in her exhaustion. He heard the baby's crying. He knew what this was.

_You're going to be a father_.

He fired.

She would at least have the mercy of dying in her sleep.

Then he turned to the small crib, packed tightly alongside the stretcher, where a pink baby wailed. He had never seen a human infant before. The red colour of their blood was more pronounced – it would make it easier to slay. He raised his phaser, intent on finishing the job he had begun. Then the Terran lettering caught his eye, and he paused.

'James Tiberius Kirk'.

A recognizable name.

He considered that he might now _revel_ in firing, if this Kirk was indeed the Kirk of history, the Federation hero and renowned companion of Ambassador Spock. Mentally, he counted the dates.

It fit.

With grim satisfaction, his finger compressed the trigger.

The crying stopped.

It was their fault she was dead.

_I love you._

He would make them pay with every drop of blood, green or red, that he could spill.

---

"Wait, wait, wait. A _bridge?_"

"Those were the circumstances as relayed to me, yes."

"I died when a fucking _bridge_ fell on me? _That's_ how I went?"

"It was not the end I had envisioned for you, either. But you did save many lives."

"Well it's not going to be happening again _this_ time around."

"I should hope not."

---

There was a bit of a scuffle outside of the diner. Winona paused, listening to the argument the teenagers were engaged it. It was nothing terribly dangerous-looking, just a bit heated, but as the mother of two sons she was accustomed to noticing such things.

"He _isn't!_" one of the young men was insisting to two of his peers, his face flushed and a fist clenched. "Captain Kirk isn't _gay!_ Take it back!"

She blinked in surprised, and then moved a little closer. Captain Kirk? They were talking about Jimmy?

One of the other boys scoffed. "Sure he's not," he said. "He and that Spock guy are just really, _really_ good friends." There was much snickering to be had at this. The tension snapped. The out-numbered boy lunged at the other one, his fist colliding with the side of his head.

Winona reacted, grabbing him by the back of his collar and breaking up the fight before it really began as she hauled him back. "Now just what the hell is going on here?" she demanded, but the two other boys were already running away, smelling the trouble they'd be in if word of this got to their parents. She was left only with the one she'd grabbed, the boy who'd thrown the first punch.

"Captain Kirk and Commander Spock saved the whole planet!" he said. "I won't let those jerks say anything bad about them!" His posture was defiant, proud, insistent. It was clear that he admired her son. But of course, there was something wrong with the whole picture.

"Hon," she said. "You really don't get it, do you?"

He looked up at her, clearly not recognizing who she was. Maybe expecting to hear more hate-fueled comments.

"They're my heroes! They're not gay!" he insisted.

After a minute, she just shook her head at him. She hadn't liked the tone of those other boys. But…

"I'm not seeing why they can't be both."

---

Hiking had seemed like a good idea, in theory. It was a fun out-door activity, involved a lot of exertion and running around, and it was a hot, sunny day, so Spock should've been just fine with it. And for the first hour or so, he was.

The flaw in Jim's plan only became apparent after the first time he miscalculated his footing, and slipped. Of course, it was only a few feet, so it wasn't like he was in a huge amount of danger – not by any stretch of the imagination. But apparently his first officer still had some understandable, residual issues involving people who were close to him, rocky red-brown terrain, and falls.

"You can really let go of me now, Spock."

It wasn't that he minded Spock holding onto him or anything. He just really didn't want to deal with the embarrassment involved in getting carried back to town.

---

It hadn't been his intention at the start of the evening to get drunk. But it was Chekov's birthday, and the kid had been adamant on celebrating by cracking open the vodka. Somehow that had turned into everyone bringing their preferred poison to the table, which had led to comparisons of said poisons, and now Bones was down for the count and Scotty was arguing with the birthday boy about something to do with Leningrad, and Sulu seemed to find everything epically amusing.

And Jim was bored. And hot. And his stupid shirts were itching, so he took both of them off, but he didn't want to lose them, so he tied the black one around his head and pulled the other onto Bones for safe-keeping. But this still wasn't fun anymore, because no one was paying attention to him.

He figured he'd go find Spock. Spock generally paid attention to him. But Jim wasn't sure where he was, so he decided to stand on the table and have a look around the room, to see if he could find him.

It was pretty dizzy up there, though. "Hey, Spock! Where're you?" he called, figuring that Spock would probably hear him. He had good hearing. But then the dizziness got the better of him, and he fell off the table. Which hurt. A lot.

He decided it would probably be a good idea to stay still for a while. Just until the room stopped spinning. He lay there for a couple of minutes and listened to Sulu chuckling, and then a pair of familiar, warm hands came around his arms, and hefted him off of the floor and back onto his feet. He grinned happily, because apparently the shouting had worked.

"Jim…" Spock said, in that tone of voice that said that Jim was being confusing and exasperating and probably doing stuff that made absolutely no sense to a Vulcan. Too much stuff for Spock to even pick a question to ask. That was okay, though, because now Jim was starting to get a bit cold, but Spock was warm.

Hugging seemed like a good idea. Jim went with it.

"I love you," he said as he clung on, because Spock was _awesome_, and… and hot. And awesome.

"I am well aware of your affection for me, Jim," Spock told him, which was his way of saying 'me too', even though it didn't sound like it. Lots of people had trouble catching on to that. Bones didn't get it. But that was okay. Jim got it, and Spock smelled good, so he buried a nose against his shirt and inhaled deeply, clasping their hands together as he did. It felt nice.

Spock exhaled a little more slowly than usual. "I believe you have consumed an excessive amount of alcohol. I shall escort you to your quarters."

Jim liked the sound of that.

As if he could read his mind, Spock added: "I do not believe that would be an advisable course of action, given your impaired level of judgment."

"Oh."

"Additionally, I will remind you that I _can_ read your mind, Jim."

"Oh yeah!"

"However, such skills would not have been required to determine the course of your thoughts," Spock added, and then he reached behind himself and pointedly moved Jim's free hand up several inches.

---

Okay.

So he was in a steady, committed relationship that was probably going to last for the rest of his life. And he was in a position of authority and responsibility, with people doing things like looking up to him, and calling him a role-model, and respecting his opinion. And last night he'd patted some wide-eyed crewman on the back and said 'Good work, Ensign' and been one-hundred percent serious about it. And then he'd disciplined about a dozen members of his crew for getting into a bar fight with a bunch of Klingons, and he'd actually been _disappointed_ in Scotty and Chekov for starting it.

And now he was sitting in a pile of puffy little creatures that wriggled and purred and looked like you'd expect to find them in the bedroom of a little girl. A little girl who was really into excessively cute shit.

But he was _still_ badass, dammit.

---


	11. More Translations

Jim's Helpful Spock-Speak Reference Guide

(Not for Starfleet. Please Ask Before Borrowing.)

"It would be logical." - "This is what I think we should do. I've prepared an argument for it, just in case you decide to disagree. The argument is tailor-made to make you look like an idiot."

"It would be illogical." – "This is what I think we _shouldn't_ do. Also, Dr. McCoy is dumb."

"That would be inadvisable." – "You're dumb. Like Dr. McCoy."

"A sound decision." – "It's good that you're at least smart enough to agree with me, despite your obvious mental handicaps."

"It is unprecedented." – "Could you at least _try_ and think of reasonable plans before you go flying off the deep-end, Jim?"

"It may be possible, but it would require a tremendous level of precision and expertise." – "Stand back, bitches, you're about to be schooled. Vulcan style."

"That is a private matter." – "Screw you, I don't ask about _your_ feelings/sex life/favorite color/childhood/etc."

"You are mistaken." – "The fact that you can be so completely wrong really shouldn't surprise me at this point, and yet, your idiocy never seems to reach a limit. It's like an endless pit of stupid has swallowed you whole, and you just keep falling further down."

"That is correct." – "Holy shit. You actually guessed _right_."

"My understanding of that subject is unfortunately limited." – "I don't know, but you can bet your ass that by tomorrow I will, because now I'm going to stay up all night reading reports about it instead of doing other, much more entertaining things."

"It is not that simple." – "Shut up and let me finish explaining before you start making plans."

"It is really quite simple." – "Did all the big numbers hurt your head? Do you need to go lie down for a while?"

"I am Vulcan." – "I'm half human and half Vulcan, and even though I favor my father's culture, if you badmouth my mother's there's going to be hell to pay."

"Fascinating." – "Don't expect me to focus on anything else for the next hour or so."

"You are the captain of this ship." – "If you want to be an idiot, I won't stop you, but only because I don't out-rank you."

"There is an alternative." – "Okay, I've figured something out, but it's based on the cracked-out shit I've learned from watching Jim, so be ready for that."

"Interesting." – "This is cool, but not cool enough to merit my saying 'fascinating'."

"Your logic is flawed." – "Yeah, your bullshit? I'm not buying it. You want to know why? Because you're an idiot, and the words that come flying out of your mouth are so tremendously stupid that if they were phaser blasts, they would be able to rip apart the hull of a starship in two seconds flat. Shields and all. So it's a good thing that they _aren't_ phaser blasts, because right now the only thing they're capable of ripping apart is my dwindling respect for you intelligence. They're doing a good job of that."

"I would not be adverse to such activities." – "If I weren't so repressed I could just say 'yes, I want to do that'. But I _am_ repressed, so instead I'm just going to say that I don't _object_ to doing that, and imply the rest of it very heavily by staring at you."

"Your conduct is inappropriate." – "You have five seconds to stop that before someone is getting nerve-pinched."

"I believe I have found a solution." – "Okay, guys, I've totally figured this shit out. Prepare to have your tiny human brains _astounded_."

"It is not arrogance, Doctor, merely a fact of my nature." – "What's that bring the scoreboard up to? Spock = nine-billion, McCoy = zero?"

"Your emotionalism serves no practical purpose to our discussion." – "There's no need to be jealous, Doctor, I'm sure you'll score a point someday. Maybe. If you spend enough time around me for my super intelligence to rub off on you, anyway."

"Your attention seems preoccupied, Captain." – "Jim? Why are you paying attention to that datapad and not my argument with your best friend?"

"I am not certain that this is a valid expenditure of your time and energy." – "Are you making fun of me?"

"Your broad misinterpretations of my demeanor are indeed far from flattering." – "You _are_ making fun of me!"

"I do not appreciate being mocked."

Jim tilted his head, finally looking up from the datapad, and gave his first officer a broad grin. "You can do me, if it'd make it any better," he offered, lifting his coffee to his lips.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "It is the middle of the day," he said rather pointedly, indicating the mess hall around them. Bones had already preemptively covered his ears and started humming some random tune as soon as Jim had looked up. He was beginning to take measures to protect his own sanity these days.

Snorting, Jim nearly sprayed his drink across the table. His grin widened. "I meant that you could goof around with how I talk. But we can do _that_, too, if you'd like."

A slight blush appeared around the tips of Spock's ears, but he merely gave Jim a rather quelling look, and then accepted the datapad from his hands. After a moment, he typed something into it, and dismissively set it back onto the table.

Jim glanced down.

"Hello/Goodbye/Superfluous Comment on the Environmental Systems or Ship's Status/Invitation to Dine/Random Observation/Discussion on Warp Theory/Virtually Any Statement or Inquiry/etc." – "Would you like to engage in sexual intercourse with me at this time?"

"Ha. Funny."

Spock curved an eyebrow at him. "Accurate," he corrected.

After a minute, Jim just shook his head. Then he threw his first officer a look and adopted a somewhat suggestive pose.

"So. Superfluous comments on the environmental systems, or random observations on warp theory?"

"Eat your lunch, Jim."


	12. Far Too Many Spocks

"Okay. So I can admit that this is a minor set-back for my whole 'Universe Demands a Three-Way' argument, but I'm still not seeing how this is even _possible_," Jim said into the shocked silence of the transporter room.

Scotty, Spock, and Beardy-Spock were silent as they stared at the transporter pad, where they'd been conducting their first test of the system to send Beardy-Spock back to his home universe. Where, apparently, everyone dressed like a pirate and acted like an asshole. Jim was intrigued by this. The formula which the three other men had cooked up had gone right over his head, but the break-down had made sense to him, and the trial had been to send an empty container to the other universe and then retrieve it. Simple enough once you got past breaking the laws of reality.

How that had led to a little kid who looked suspiciously like his first officer standing on the transporter pad was anyone's guess. The tiny Vulcan's eyes were wide as he looked around himself, clearly as shocked by his transition as everyone else was.

"…Yeh know, Captain, ah'm starting to think yeh've got a point about being an inter-dimensional magnet fer the Commander," Scotty said. Jim was only listening to him with half an ear, though. Mini-Spock (and he was pretty damn sure that _was_ Spock and not just some random Vulcan kid, because there was something distinctly recognizable about those eyes, and he had a track-record backing him up on this) was shivering a little, and looking frightened. Not by human standards, of course, but his almost-suppressed trembles and the slight movement of his throat as he swallowed and seemed to shrink in on himself were very telling.

"Fascinating," Beardy-Spock said.

So, Jim had never been good with kids. But he was generally alright with Spocks, and no one seemed to be moving, and the kid looked like he was freezing and petrified. He started to walk forward a little.

"Where am I?" Mini-Spock asked, his eyes darting between Jim and the other Spocks. "This is not the transporter station for the educational facility I attend."

After a second, Jim shook his head. "No, it's not," he agreed. "It looks like we had another fu… uh, _mishap_ with our transporter and accidentally picked you up. Somehow?" At this he shot a questioning glance to the other adults in the room. Spock had moved closer to Scotty, and the two seemed to be furiously going over their calculations together. Beardy-Spock was staring at Mini-Spock with one eyebrow raised, and was otherwise being largely unhelpful.

He took a breath, and then walked onto the transporter pad and kneeled down in front of the little guy. Who was looking solemn and shivering. He smiled, and tried to seem non-threatening. Jeez. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to head for school and wind up on a space ship.

Well, actually, _he_ probably would have thought it was the best thing ever at that age – or any age – but Spock was usually a little less gung-ho about unexpected adventures. He preferred the more organized kind.

"My name's Captain Kirk, but you can call me Jim. We'll try and get you back where you belong, okay?" he said.

Mini-Spock regarded him with a serious expression, his eyes moving from his face to his uniform, and then back over his shoulder at the other two Spocks again. "I am aboard a Starfleet vessel?" he asked.

"Yup," Jim confirmed. "The U.S.S. _Enterprise_."

"Captain," his Spock said, and Jim turned around to find himself fixed with a somewhat stern look. "It would perhaps be unwise to divulge too much information."

He considered this. "…Nah," he decided. "I mean, he's from another dimension. I don't think we'll screw him up too badly."

Their latest Spock widened his eyes even further. "I am in another dimension?" he said.

Jim winked. "You are," he confirmed. "You're also in another time. See, behind me? That's my chief engineer, Scotty, and my first officer, Commander Spock-" he got a pointedly disapproving look from his Spock at that, and the littler one cast another open stare at his other self, "-and a slightly older version of him from another dimension. So I'm guessing you're a _younger_ version of him from another dimension."

"We are as yet uncertain as to his true origins, Captain," Spock informed him. "It is possible he has been transported out of time, and not inter-dimensionally."

Jim shrugged. "Well, if that's the case, we'd still make another timeline by bringing him here," he pointed out reasonably. "But if you want to play it on the safe side, we could tell him all about Nero before we send him back."

He could almost hear the wheels in Spock's brain turning, going from 'it would be unethical to intentionally change history' to 'but a new timeline was already created accidentally' to 'it would be unethical to do nothing and potentially permit Vulcan to be destroyed again in another universe'. "…Perhaps that would be wise," he concluded, before turning back to his calculations. He didn't seem otherwise to be terribly interested in his younger self.

Or else he was pointedly ignoring him. Further awkwardness with his own identity, Jim supposed. He looked back at Mini-Spock, who'd engaged in a stare-off with Beardy-Spock.

"Nero?" Beardy-Spock asked.

Jim waved a dismissive hand. "If you don't know already, then he doesn't exist in your universe. Or won't, not yet," he explained. Man, Spock had been a _tiny_ kid. He didn't know much about judging ages on children, especially not Vulcan children, but were they always that small?

Not that he wanted to pick him up or anything. Except that he kind of did, because those little shivers of cold were doing things to his protective instincts that he wasn't entirely comfortable with.

Well, hell, he was always up for getting a reaction out of Spock. He just hoped he didn't scare the kid. Reaching out, he moved his hands under his arms, hefted him up, and carried him off of the transporter pad. Mini-Spock's hands clutched at his shoulders in uncomfortable surprise. The others looked at him with almost uncomprehending expressions, except for Scotty, who just shrugged.

"C'mon, Spock," Jim said to the warm, tiny, stiff and awkward frame in his grasp. "Let's go find you someplace more comfortable while these idiots sort things out."

Beardy-Spock's expression darkened at the implication that he was an 'idiot', but Jim just gave him a cocky grin and carted his smaller self out of the transporter room, calling out an instruction to keep him notified over his shoulder.

Bones would probably be a good place to go. He liked kids.

"I am capable of walking," Mini-Spock pointed out after a moment, although he had relaxed some, and the hands resting on Jim's shoulders seemed less like they were afraid of falling and more like they were resting comfortably there.

"Okay," he agreed, shrugging a little and pausing to lower Mini-Spock down onto the deck. Several passing crewmembers had stopped to stare at them in open curiosity. After all, it wasn't every day that Vulcan children inexplicably appeared aboard the ship. His miniature first officer didn't seem all that comfortable with the stares, glancing around himself with a composure that couldn't quite match his older counterparts', and subtly shifting closer to Jim's legs as they resumed walking again.

The corridors of the _Enterprise_ had never seemed so large and crowded before, particularly given that it wasn't even a shift change or anything like that. And if he felt the tiniest of grips take hold of the corner of one pant leg, well, it wasn't every day a kid got swept out of his universe. He wouldn't be telling anyone about it.

"Am I to understand that the Commander Spock who serves upon this ship is an older version of myself?" Mini-Spock asked him after a moment.

Jim glanced down at him, and nodded. "He is," he confirmed.

Mini-Spock tilted his head slightly. "Then I was unable to gain entrance to the Vulcan Science Academy, as father anticipates I will," he determined, and even though he didn't _sound_ disappointed or ashamed, the downturn of his gaze was vey telling.

It was a good thing Jim didn't have any qualms about messing up another timeline, or else he might have had to feel like a jerk. "No, you got in," he said. "You just decided to join Starfleet instead. 'Cause we're awesome."

Also, damn, he guessed it wasn't _completely_ surprising that Spock had had his career path planned out at this point, but that was still kind of messed up. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten.

"How old are you?" he asked, for clarification.

"Twelve years, three months, eleven days," Spock replied easily, and Jim blinked.

He really _was_ tiny. Were all Vulcans generally tinier as kids than humans? That didn't seem right, considering how tall most of them were. Then again, Spock was taller than him, so maybe they just hit really big growth spurts at some point.

Either way his tiny face now had a tiny, slightly vexed expression on it. Which, on Spock at any age, seemed to be comprised of his eyebrows moving a little closer together. "I elected not to attend the Academy of Science?" he said. "Why would I do that?"

Jim grinned. "Like I said – 'cause Starfleet's awesome. I mean, on this ship, you get to go sailing all over the galaxy seeking out new life and civilizations, and running scans on all kinds of crazy shi… uh, stuff." He coughed, reminding himself that this Spock's parents probably wouldn't appreciate it if he came back to them with a new repertoire of profanity at his disposal. Not that he'd be likely to _use_ any of it, given that he was _Spock_, but still. "Like last week, we found this whole ship full of cryogenically frozen super-humans from the past."

Mini-Spock's expression became a little more contemplative as Jim herded him into the turbolift, and got them moving towards sickbay.

"I mean," Jim continued. "The fact that you're even here is pretty adventurous, wouldn't you say?"

"'Adventurous'?" Mini-Spock inquired. "I do not see how adventure is relevant."

"It comes with added bonuses," he assured him. "Like meeting really handsome future starship captains, and making friends with the crew."

There was the briefest of hesitant pauses, and then Mini-Spock gave him an unfathomable expression. "Friends?" he said.

The door to the lift opened again, and they strode out. This time, when they got into the corridor, the little half-Vulcan stayed close, but didn't seem as bothered by the passing crew or the unfamiliar corridors. Jim gave him a nod. "Sure," he replied easily, knowing full well that Spock's childhood had been essentially friendless. Alright, so maybe he was manipulating a little, but if he could put in a good word for the _Enterprise_ then he figured it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing.

"I mean, there's you and me, of course, and then there's Uhura, and Bones – although he doesn't seem like it sometimes, but trust me, he's all talk – and Scotty and Sulu and Chekov. But you're pretty popular with everyone."

Mini-Spock's eyes had gotten steadily larger with each name Jim had listed, as if he had been fairly certain that the plural in 'friends' meant 'two', and the idea of _six_ nameable individuals plus a general, casual sense of camaraderie was shocking to him.

Jim found he could relate. He hadn't had much luck with friends until his academy days, either. There was too much of a reputation in his home town from all the stunts he pulled. Most parents had labeled him a 'bad influence', and pretty much anyone who sought him out for company had been an even bigger jerk than he was back then.

"I have a cousin. My mother insists that we are friends," Mini-Spock informed him solemnly. "In the past he has succeeded in evoking an emotional reaction from me."

"Oh," Jim said. "You like him?"

Mini-Spock gave him a very distinctive look. On his older self, it would become his 'are you fucking kidding me?' look. Or, in Spock-speak, 'I find your assertions to be highly unlikely, and believe they reflect poorly upon your intuitive capabilities'. "No," he said, sounding absolutely certain on that front.

Jim thought he'd kind of caught on to what the kid was driving at, though. "I get it. I'm not jerking you around. We really are friends."

The skeptical look his assertion earned him caused something to tighten in his chest.

"_Really_," he insisted. "I know it's hard to believe that you'd put up with a bunch of over-emotional human types like us, but you manage." His tone was light and teasing as he spoke.

Mini-Spock blinked.

"My mother is human," he said, his tone almost a little bit reproachful, as if he were scolding Jim for insulting his own species. Which was surprising, because usually Spock was all for making fun of the crew and their over-the-top ways. Apparently, however, his younger self was a little more defensive about it.

"I know," Jim said, shrugging. "I was just kidding."

His small companion was silent, then, as they made the rest of the journey to sickbay, which was fortunately free of patients at the moment. Well, there hadn't been any away missions for a while, so that wasn't really surprising. Bones would probably be using this time for his research. It was Nurse Chapel who greeted them at the entrance, however, her gaze startled as she took in Spock Number Four.

"I found another one," he said, trying to lighten the situation. "Spock, this is Nurse Chapel. Nurse, this is our latest Spock. He's twelve."

"Greetings," Mini-Spock said politely.

Chapel looked at him for a long, quiet moment. Then she bit her bottom lip and shook her head. "_You_ are the most adorable child I have ever seen," she declared with feeling, bending over so that she was a bit closer to his eye-level and beaming at him. "How on earth did we manage to get you?"

"We are not on Earth. We are on a space ship," Mini-Spock pointed out in response, and Jim thought that answered her question and emphasized his adorableness all at once. Then he turned to look at Jim. "This room is not more comfortable than the transporter facility. It is too cold," he said.

"Oh, you must be freezing!" Chapel exclaimed before Jim could respond, and straightened up again. "I'll go see if I can fix that." With a decisive nod she moved off towards sickbay's environmental control panel. Mini-Spock watched her with open curiosity as she raised the heat in the room, and after a moment, his shivers began to subside. Jim let out a relieved breath and almost unthinkingly patted the tiny shoulder by his hand. It earned him a quizzical glance, which then turned into a look of mild, momentary alarm as the door to Bones' office banged open, and the CMO came marching out.

"Dammit, Chapel, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, you can't just go changing the temperature in here every time that green-blooded-"

A few things happened at once then. Firstly, Jim quite abruptly found himself being used as an anti-Bones shield by Mini-Spock, who was staring at the doctor with a wide-eyed look that on a human child would indicate 'mild surprise', and on Spock meant 'shocked and terrified'. Bones also happened to notice the diminutive stature of the Spock currently present in the room, and froze.

And Jim most certainly did not snap "Watch your mouth, Bones!" because that would imply a whole other level of personal growth which he did not intend to ever achieve. So it must have been someone else in the nearby vicinity who sounded exactly like him that said that.

The good doctor gaped openly at the two of them, and then swore. Which went to show how much control the owner of the mystery voice had over that kind of thing.

"Jesus, Jim, tell me you didn't shrink him," Bones beseeched.

Jim rolled his eyes. "I didn't shrink him," he said easily, as the 'him' in question peered cautiously out towards the loud human who'd undoubtedly just scared him shitless, emotional suppression or no. "We had another transporter incident. This time we got a little one."

"Well then why the hell did you bring him here?"

Mini-Spock ducked back behind him again, and again Jim felt a brief pull at his pant leg, as of a small hand closing around the fabric.

"Because, I've got a ton of sh… uh, stuff to do, and I need someone to keep an eye on him. And you're the only person I know who has experience with kids," he explained reasonably.

Both Bones and Spock simultaneously stiffened.

"No. Absolutely not. Sickbay's no place for a kid, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know firsthand how messed-up Vulcan child-rearing is," the doctor declared firmly, shaking his head and looking like he was going to be very, very stubborn about this.

Mini-Spock gave the fabric in his grasp the slightest of tugs, and Jim looked back to see him gazing up at him from his tiny, sharp-featured face, looking impossibly serious. "I request that you do not leave me in this man's care. He seems unstable."

"Unstable my ass!"

Chapel frowned. "Doctor. Language," she said, and Bones blinked, as if he hadn't even realized he'd been swearing. Which he probably hadn't.

"He's not unstable," Jim assured Mini-Spock. "He's just loud. Some humans are like that. Trust me, he's harmless." Carefully, he maneuvered his small charge out from behind him, so that they were standing side by side again. He kept one hand on the kid's shoulder as Mini-Spock regarded Bones somewhat warily.

For his own part, Bones had the good grace to look a little chagrined. But he was still stubborn. "I mean it, Jim, he can't stay here."

Mini-Spock looked up at him again. "I can remain with you while you attend your duties, Captain. I am well-mannered and will behave," he promised. Jim believed him. But on the other hand, it probably wasn't a good idea to have any kid – even Spock – going around through sensitive areas of the ship.

"I know," Chapel said, walking over and crouching down. "My shift's just about over. If Doctor McCoy doesn't mind letting me go a little early, why don't I take you down to the rec room?" she suggested.

"Good idea, Nurse," Bones seconded, looking relieved.

Jim, however, shook his head. "It'll be too cold for him. He can't take the same temperatures as our Spock yet, I don't think," he pointed out. Thinking for a moment, he then sighed and shrugged. "Why don't you just take him to my quarters? You can jack up the temperature – it's probably already set pretty high, come to think of it – and he can go through some of our Spock's things in there," he suggested. Maybe Spock's quarters would be a better idea, but he'd probably get in shit for giving Chapel permission on his first officer's behalf, and besides, they both essentially lived in one another's rooms anyway.

"If you think so," the head nurse agreed, nodding and smiling at Mini-Spock, who glanced back up at Jim again.

"It'll be fine," Jim assured him. "We'll figure out how to send you home. And in the meantime, you can see what boring taste Starfleet has in furniture fabrics," he suggested.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Chapel managed to coax Spock into following her out of sickbay. When they were gone, Bones rounded on Jim.

"My god, man, what in the hell were you thinking?" he demanded. "I don't even get along with Spock _now_, what possessed you believe that his being shorter and more easily terrified would change that?"

"…I dunno?" Jim replied after a moment. "You're nice to kids."

Bones shook his head at him, wearing an expression which clearly said that his captain was the biggest idiot in the world. He muttered something to that general effect, shook his head again, and then ran a hand along the back of his neck. "I can't believe you got another one," he mumbled. "It's like you've got some kind of crazy Vulcan curse or something."

"It's animal magnetism," Jim offered helpfully.

"This one's _twelve_. I don't think that argument works anymore."

"Good taste is universal," he quipped back, and with a shrug headed towards the exit.

Bones threw him a dismissive wave, clearly concluding that Jim was a lost cause sanity-wise. "So's _bad_," he pointed out.

With a brief snort at that parting comment, Jim made his way back to the transporter room, where he found two Spocks and a Scotty all muttering to one another over the station. One of the panels had been cracked open, and Scotty's tool kit was spread out nearby. It looked like Beardy-Spock had been assigned consultant status, because he wasn't actively touching anything. Then again, it was also possible that he just didn't feel like being particularly helpful.

"So have we made progress in figuring out what the hell just happened?" Jim asked.

"Nothing substantial," Beardy-Spock informed him, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you would be better served to return to the bridge, Captain, where you can sit in your chair and ogle your yeoman. We will contact you if there is anything requiring your _unique_ brand of intelligence."

"As I have informed you numerous times, the captain is not a primitive idiot," Spock-Spock said from the side of the control panel, where he appeared to be monitoring some changes which Scotty was making.

Jim grinned. "Well, you know, I try," he said, winking at Beardy-Spock, who arched an eyebrow at him. He'd managed to gather that this Spock was just a _tiny_ bit… evil-er than most. Just a bit. He didn't buy his own Spock's argument that he was made of concentrated wickedness, but only because he had a lot of trouble imagining that. The closest his brain came to Evil Spock was, in fact, Really Pissed Off Spock.

Maybe his beard itched or something and kept making him cranky.

"I'm surprised your captain ogles his yeoman when he's got a perfectly good science officer on the bridge," he quipped, earning himself a pointed look from his Spock, and getting Beardy-Spock to raise the other eyebrow.

"The Kirk of my universe has long ago learned the inadvisability of testing my patience," Beardy-Spock informed him.

Jim frowned. "That sucks," he said. "He's a quitter?"

"He is in possession of survival instincts," his alternate first officer corrected. "And unlike yourself, does not have the luxury of a more weak-willed Vulcan to protect him from his own idiocy."

There were a lot of interesting things which could be taken away from that statement. One was the idea that Beardy-Spock was comparing Kirks, and, as generally seemed to happen with all this alternate universe business, had concluded that his own was in some way preferable. Another was that he thought Jim was an idiot, but that had already been established. The thing which really caught the young captain's attention, however, was…

"Spock isn't weak-willed. He can kick your ass."

Beardy-Spock gave him a dark look. His own Spock had stiffened, and was watching the interaction with a certain degree of tension. Scotty heaved a sigh, as if he expected these kinds of things to happen, and was generally annoyed that they chose to do so while he was working.

"His physical strength is comparable to my own, as would be expected," Beardy-Spock said, folding his arms across his chest. "But you surely cannot contend that he is sufficiently commanding in personality if he is so obediently loyal to you. Particularly given your obnoxious personal qualities."

Jim scowled, folding his own arms across his chest and initiating what amounted to a stand-off. "I never thought I'd see the day when someone claimed that Spock wasn't bossy enough. I guess it figures it'd be another Spock," he noted. Well, he'd been called an obnoxious idiot before. Although it kind of stung coming from that particular face – he decided, then, that beards were unattractive. "So why does _your_ Kirk keep you around if you're a disloyal bastard? Because if he's such an incompetent moron, I'm a little surprised that he's the captain."

Beardy-Spock made a somewhat negligent gesture with his head. "In the empire, a certain degree of recklessness and mental instability is required in order to consider captaining a vessel. Kirk is a sufficient puppet for redirecting malicious intent."

…Huh. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost say that Beardy-Spock really _was_ full-blown evil.

But he did know better.

"Fascinating," the regular Spock said, raising his eyebrow but turning his attention back to the task at hand. "I had not realized I was so potentially competent at self-delusion. It would be wise to review several of my personal motivations during my next meditation cycle, for the sake of prudency."

And they were off! Jim stood back a little, prepared to watch the verbal throw-down which was about to ensue. Beardy-Spock and Spock-Spock had already argued before, and he'd seen fights between his Spock and the old man, although there was a certain quality to _these_ confrontations that made him almost giddy.

Seeing Spock argue with himself was kind of hot.

"Self-delusion?" Beardy-Spock parroted, in a tone of voice which subtly implied that Jim's first officer had better be careful about what he said next, or else he'd be wearing his ass as a hat. Except that he wouldn't, because between Spock, Jim, and Scotty, they had their visitor fairly well out-matched.

"Indeed. If your captain is, as you say, a 'puppet', then a certain degree of interaction on your part would be required. But why initiate such a routine? It would be simpler to subversively control the workings of a ship by maintaining a revolving door of poorly entrenched captains. The crew would obey you as an established source of power and authority, while any difficult or unruly leaders would be easily done away with, allowing no other party to establish a true foothold of influence in the command structure. Even a puppet can gain followers and impact of their own if left as a figurehead for long enough. You are intelligent and logical, as well as lacking in moral philosophy – you will have realized this. Yet for whatever reason, you have convinced yourself that there is more convenience in keeping your Captain Kirk in power. Illogical, unless one considers that you have a certain degree of attachment to him."

Beardy-Spock's eyes narrowed. "Illogical to your mind, perhaps," he countered. "But you have clearly been corrupted by a sense of sentimentality. Kirk is a practical choice."

Spock-Spock gave him a deeply skeptical look. "I find that remarkably unlikely."

Jim wondered if that was an insult or not. He decided it was probably just true, he was almost never a _practical_ choice. Exhilarating, unconventional, adventurous, sexy, astounding, and brilliant, but not practical.

"He's got yeh there," Scotty added for good measure from underneath the station's console, his statement punctuated by a loud clang.

Feeling diplomatic, Jim spread his hands in a placating gesture. "It's alright," he said. "I'm nice to look at. I can see why you'd want to keep me on the bridge. There's nothing to be ashamed about." He winked at his own Spock, whose mouth twitched just so momentarily. The interaction didn't go unnoticed by Beardy-Spock, who looked, if anything, _more_ severe afterwards.

"Your aesthetic appeal is irrelevant," he said sharply.

Jim pumped a fist into the air, because that was as good as him saying that, yes, his captain was a fine looking man. And he'd noticed. And decided it didn't matter, but in order for him to do that he'd have to consider that it _did_, which, in Spock terms, pretty much meant that it did.

He had a feeling that the We Get Awesome Sashes Universe's Jim was going to owe him a solid by the time they got him his first officer back.

"As riveting as it is to listen to you three bicker like love-struck schoolgirls, ah've work to do," Scotty informed them sagely, poking up his head and looking simultaneously annoyed and amused. "So if yeh don't mind, either get back to helping me, or piss off. At this point ah dinnae care which."

Beardy-Spock glanced at him. "It would appear that the lack of observance towards rank and formality is a ship-wide phenomenon in this universe," he noted.

"Scotty's a genius. He's allowed to tell me and Spock to piss off every now and then," Jim explained sagely. He didn't add that most of the time his chief engineer was pretty good about observing rank, even though the first time they'd met he'd thought Jim was delivering him sandwiches.

At that point any further discussion was interrupted by a beep from the com system. Jim glanced at it, and then strode over, answering the message which had come down from the bridge. Uhura's voice addressed him from the other line. "Sir, you might want to get up here. Sensors are picking up odd spatial fluctuations surrounding the planet we're in orbit with."

"I'm on my way," he replied, and then glanced back towards Scotty and the Spocks. He thought for a moment – but if there was something going on, he wanted his first officer on the bridge, and it probably wasn't a good idea to just leave Beardy-Spock alone with his chief engineer. "Spock. Spock. You heard the lieutenant, let's get up there."

Both Spocks raised an eyebrow at that, but after a minute they also fell into step beside him as well.

Beardy-Spock matched his pace almost as evenly as his own Spock did.

"Captain, I do not think it is advisable to allow my alternate self access to the bridge," Spock said, not even batting a lash or bothering to lower his voice about so boldly tossing out his mistrust. Not that he'd exactly been keeping quiet about it.

Jim shrugged. "Well, he hasn't done anything to merit locking him in the brig, and besides, I kind of like him," he countered. "He's like you, only meaner."

"I fail to see how that would hold appeal."

"It's the 'like you' part, really. Plus, you know, I've always kind of wondered about that darker side of yours. Apparently it just makes you a little more cranky and prone to facial hair. Good to know, right?" he reasoned, lowering a hand onto Spock's shoulder and willing him to relax a little bit.

"Darker side?" Beardy-Spock said, just the slightest hint of mockery or perhaps condescension to his voice. "By your standards, then, the Kirk of my universe would be a villain of unparalleled cruelty. He is ruthless, you know. Merciless. I have never seen him hesitate to enact torture or murder against his enemies. He has razed entire colonies and civilizations to the ground in following the will of the empire."

Jim's steps faltered at the tone of absolute, matter-of-fact sincerity to the other Spock's voice. There wasn't the faintest hint of condemnation or disapproval to his tone. Simply statement and observation, and it forced a double-take from him as he blinked, and felt his throat go dry.

Wait.

What?

"What?" he said aloud.

The alternate Spock folded his hands behind his back. "I wonder if he ever possessed any of your idealism. I did not know him in my own universe when he was your age. Perhaps he did – perhaps you will face a similar fall from your idealistic principals at some point. It would be intriguing to observe. Human nature is remarkably fickle, after all."

Jim felt a cold kind of dread trail down his spine. It was not very pleasant to be informed that you were a tyrant in another universe. Not that he thought that had any _real_ bearing on his identity, still – there were things a person would like to think they'd never be capable of. But this darker Spock didn't seem to be lying, and for a moment, Jim felt very genuinely horrified. Torture. Murder. Genocide. _Him?_

A warm hand closed delicately around his wrist, and his gaze snapped back to his own Spock. He was facing forward, but his eyes had slid towards him in concern. _Not you,_ the sentiment carried over through the thread of shared touch. _Not me, either_.

Of course. You couldn't walk between two people if they were the same person. Alternate versions meant differences, and Jim let himself breathe, remembering that once more. Spock let go of his wrist. The entire exchange only lasted for a moment.

"Fascinating," said Beardy-Spock. "Perhaps that is to what he referred."

"Who?" Jim asked, wondering if he wanted to hear the answer.

"Another Kirk," Beardy-Spock replied. "This is not my first experience with inter-dimensional contact. Approximately three months ago, the _Enterprise_ of my universe suffered a transporter malfunction which led to the exchange of four members of our own crew with the crew from an alternate _Enterprise_. At that time, there was no temporal displacement, and we were at first completely unaware of the transfer. I encountered an alternate version of my ship's captain. He was less… verbally abrasive than yourself or my own Kirk, but more in keeping with your fundamental philosophies. He advocated the establishment of a more peaceful regime as possessing better longevity. His point was aptly made – the empire will burn itself out before long. However, I could not see how peace was necessarily more resilient. But you have unwittingly illustrated an interesting point."

"And what's that?" Jim asked, wondering at the idea of this other Kirk, now, too. He sounded a bit more like the old man's version of him.

Beardy-Spock tipped his head slightly, and Jim was struck by the notion, suddenly, that this Spock was a hell of a lot more bitter than his. Which was saying something, because _his_ Spock had seen his planet destroyed. "That amicable cooperation can quite effectively thwart intimidation," he answered.

"That is obvious," his own Spock said, arching an eyebrow at his counterpart.

"To you, perhaps," Beardy-Spock replied, narrowing his eyes a little. "In my own universe it is rare enough to find examples of such interactions to provide even an appropriate basis for comparison." Yup. _Definitely_ more bitter.

"Why is everything always a giant science experiment for you guys?" Jim asked, poking his own Spock in the arm and gesturing with his head towards the bearded one.

Spock gave him a patient look. "Science is the study of the universe in its simplest and most complex forms, Jim," he said, momentarily dropping their rank formality. "Quite essentially, everything _is_ an ongoing science experiment. Treating it as such is only logical."

"Indeed," the other Spock concurred.

Jim rolled his eyes.

That seemed to be the cue for both Spocks to resume technical discussions of transporters and the fabric of space, and Jim followed along with as much of it as he could pick up – which was more than most people, but less than a quarter of what was actually being said – and wondered what the business with this spatial anomaly would be.

He hoped it wasn't another god-like alien being with semi-omnipotent powers. For some reason they always kidnapped him and dressed him in period clothing.

More likely, it would have something to do with why the transporter kept picking up Spocks and dumping them into his lap. Which may or may not _also_ incidentally involve some kind of god-like alien being with semi-omnipotent powers.

When they got to the bridge, it was to find an atmosphere of tense uncertainty, which lessened only slightly at the appearance of the captain and first officer. And the random other Spock, who was earning a lot of curious glances.

"Status?" Jim asked, heading over to his chair.

"No sign of other wessels," Chekov informed him.

"I've been trying to keep us clear of the source of the disturbance, Captain. It doesn't seem to have an effect on the planet's gravitational pull, or atmosphere," Sulu chimed in. Spock took his place at his science station. After a beat, Beardy-Spock followed Jim over to his chair, and stood beside it.

Checking his armrest, Jim frowned a little. "Can we tell if it's coming from the planet or a separate source?" he asked.

"One moment, Captain," Spock replied. The viewscreen was showing the open expanse of space before them, and faintly Jim thought he could make out an odd wavering against the sphere of the planet, stretching on to the stars around it like the shimmer of intense heat. "It does not appear to be…"

Spock cut off, and Jim heard the faintest hiss of breath as Beardy-Spock gave a sharp intake of air beside him. He looked up from his armrest in time to see him raise his hands to his head, an expression of pain on his face – whipping around in his seat, he noted his own Spock reacting similarly. "Shit," he swore, wondering what the hell was going on and moving from his chair to the science station. "Spock? What's wrong?"

His first thought was that it was one of those telepathic things. He was alarmed. But that alarm sharpened and defined into true fear only when a trail of green blood began to track out of his first officer's nose, and his counterpart slumped into the captain's chair – which Jim didn't begrudge him under the circumstances – and began to convulse slightly.

And there was another Spock on the ship, too. The little guy.

"Uhura, get a medical team up here, and one to my quarters," Jim ordered abruptly. "What are the sensors reading? Are we getting any kind of signal, anything we can pick up and block?"

They weren't, not even when he sent Chekov from tactical over to Spock's place and gently pulled his shaking, pained first officer away from it. They were still picking up an anomaly, but that was the thing about anomalies – when you knew what they were, you got to define them as _that_ instead of an _anomaly_.

He clasped Spock around his chest, uncertain of what to do except hold on until the medical team arrived. At first he thought the lightening of weight in his arms was Spock somehow sliding down out of his grasp. But then he looked down, and his eyes widened in shocked horror, because his first officer had become oddly transparent to him. He could see himself through Spock, the faded outline of colour and flesh and fabric slipping through his fingers.

Dark eyes, dulled by pain and delirium, held onto his for an instant.

"Spock!"

At that moment, every Spock in the universe vanished.

---

**Author's Notes:** _Definitely_ going to continue this one, obviously, although I'm not sure when. A friend of mine suggested I add Kid!Spock to the mix of many Spocks, and once the idea got in there it wouldn't get out. I keep hurting Spock on the bridge for some reason. Seems particularly sadistic of me, injuring him right next to the literal seat of Jim's power...


	13. Search For Spock

**Author's Note:** I uploaded three chapters, so check the previous two, 'cause you might have missed them. Also, just to clarify on this fic – nothing is running in chronological order here, I'm basically just throwing stuff in as it occurs to me and is written. So even though the past few fics have been established, this is pre-established.

---

Over the course of the past month, the _Enterprise_ had been assigned to a number of diplomatic missions. There was a reason for the sudden surge of interstellar out-reach. Since the _Narada_ incident a lot of resources in the Fleet had been run precariously low. Many ships and their crews had been lost. Vulcan, the majority of its people, and the various commodities produced by its world were gone as well. The Federation in general and Starfleet in particular needed to forge new contacts, particularly since the Klingons – sensing weakness – had begun pushing at the borders lately. They needed to avoid looking weak, worn down, or beaten. The _Enterprise_ was kind of good for that. It was shiny and full of reckless young people.

That being said, Jim _hated_ diplomatic missions. At first he had been completely godawful at them, but by now, he'd learned a few general rules which helped him get by:

- Spock Always Goes. Always. For one thing, Spock's father was an ambassador, and diplomacy seemed like second-nature to him (except where humans were concerned, which was pretty funny, really, all things considered). For another, Spock remembered everything, and never had a problem going up to Jim and telling him when he was making an inadvertent ass of himself. Usually with that condescending, 'it can't be _so_ hard to remember nine billion boring facts about a species we're probably only going to deal with once' look on his face, but Jim could deal with that. He'd just grin and wink and clap his first officer on the shoulder, which meant 'but that's what I have _you_ for'.

- Scotty Never Goes. Never. He'd taken his chief engineer to _one_ diplomatic function and he'd learned his lesson, thanks. It wasn't that he intentionally misbehaved or anything. It was just that for Scotty, 'diplomatic' meant 'get everybody drunk'. Or, as had actually happened, 'accidentally poison an entire assembly'.

- Uhura Has Epic Bullshitting Skills. Use Them Wisely. In addition to being culturally well-informed and linguistically talented, his communications officer could lie with the most honest damn face he'd ever seen. He'd learned this when she had convinced him for the better part of an hour that he was going to have to greet the latest political big-wig from some backwater world by rubbing genitals with him. Fortunately, she wasn't evil enough to actually _leave_ him with that delusion, and most of the time she used her powers for good. Like getting them out of really boring and unnecessary functions before Jim killed somebody.

- Don't Read the File. Starfleet files on diplomacy were excessively long-winded and really, really moronically organized, and Jim had neither the time nor inclination to sort through a file which couldn't be bothered to organize itself in order of 'Shit That Will Get you Killed', 'Shit That Will Start a War', 'Shit That Seems Really Fucking Rude', and 'What Kind of Gifts to Get For The Second Cousin of The Emperor's Wife After the Birth of Their Third Child'. So instead Jim gave his files to Yeoman Rand, and this accomplished two things – firstly, it got her to stop bringing him salads for lunch like she was his dietician or something. Second, it got _her_ to read the files and organize them so that he knew whether or not scratching his nose was going to get him thrown in prison, without also having to learn what kind of flowers they decorated the royal palace with on Tuesdays.

- When All Else Fails, Smile. Jim was not quite sure _why_ this worked, but it did. He liked to think it was his natural charm. Except on that one planet, where showing teeth was considered a sign of aggression – but even then it had worked. He just hadn't realized it had been an intimidation thing until they beamed back and Spock told him how petrified he'd made everyone.

- Just Eat It. Diplomacy meant a lot of disgusting food. For whatever reason, humans seemed to be the only race in the galaxy that made efforts to serve their guests food that _wouldn't_ make them retch. Everyone else seemed happy to throw the most unappealing thing they could find in front of you, and then lean in and watch your face with a kind of sadistic glee as you ate it. And you had to fucking _smile_, too, which was pretty hard when your natural reaction was vomiting. Jim suspected that most alien diplomats were essentially those kids that made you eat worms in grade school. Bones was, for obvious reasons, really bad on those kinds of missions. Mostly because he just refused point-blank to eat anything that moved unless someone was going to get killed over it.

So, by the time they were set to head out for Avar IX, he was feeling pretty secure about the whole thing, even if he wasn't exactly looking forward to it.

His first hint that this was not going to go well was when the planet's greeting party walked right up and started taking turns hugging people. He hadn't been expecting that – apparently Rand hadn't thought it would be an issue for him. It wasn't. Spock, on the other hand? That was another story.

The Avarans were fairly short, with wide, well-muscled bodies and very sharp teeth. They were otherwise pretty human-looking, though. But man were they tactile people. Their planet was bright and airy, and the assignment was essentially to go and 'inspire a positive impression of Starfleet' to the Avaran people in general. Or, in other words, show themselves off as hero-types and make nice at a yearly holiday festival type thing they had going on. The celebration was supposed to last for an entire week. Jim already had Uhura cooking up an excuse that could get them out of it in just a few days.

But the hugging – yeah, he knew that was going to be a problem when they got to his first officer, who had been watching the approaching procession move through the line of arrivals with about as much dread as Jim had ever seen him show. He was ramrod straight and unyielding at hell when the first one hugged him, and about five hugs later looked like he could have passed for a statue. Jim himself just went with it. It was awkward, but it was a lot better than that planet where everybody sneezed on you to say hello.

As the celebration progressed, however, it became clear that hugs weren't just greetings, they were the default form of interaction. _Everybody_ hugged. And touched, looping arms around waists, grabbing shoulders and hands, standing so close that personal bubbles seemed like a distant dream. It was starting to get to _Jim_, and he was all for physical contact most of the time. At some point he just kind of lost sight of Spock, and presumed his first officer had found a convenient dark corner to hide from all the touching in. To be fair he had a lot to distract him, what with practically _everyone_ in the room sidling up to him to talk about the Federation and Starfleet and Nero (another bonus of these kinds of missions – it was almost mandatory to have long, drawn out conversations about the guy who'd killed his father, Spock's mother, and, you know, a few billion other people). The Avarans also had their fair share of disgusting food (the _best _of it closely resembled pig's feet) and really, truly painful-sounding music. It was like listening to somebody jump up and down on a bunch of frogs, complete with croaking and squelching and the occasional, unintentionally hilarious fart sound that made him think he would have loved this place when he was ten.

So it was awhile before he broke away and realized that Spock was nowhere to be seen.

Jim's first thought was that he'd found a good excuse and ducked out. He was a little jealous, but then again, it was _Spock_ and it was _touching_, and that was probably his version of a nightmare or something. So he couldn't really blame him. The guy didn't even like it when Jim clapped his shoulder, and that lasted like two seconds.

He didn't start to worry until he called up the _Enterprise_ to tease him about it and learned that, no, Spock was still at the party.

Except he wasn't.

Which was kind of really not good.

"You're not bullshitting me, right, Lieutenant?" he asked. "He's really not up there?"

"Captain?" Uhura sounded really genuinely worried. "You can't find him?"

He couldn't. It wasn't like he'd be hard to spot, either, Jim himself stood head and shoulders over the vast majority of their hosts. But looking out over the sea of hugging, smiling faces, he couldn't catch any glimpse of familiar blue cloth or a stern, dark-eyed expression.

"Do a sensor sweep for his lifesigns," he advised, his brain jumping to everything from 'check the bathroom' to 'oh shit, he's been kidnapped'. Vulcans were pretty rare these days, after all, and rare things tended to get stolen a lot.

He checked the bathrooms first, though. Both of them, because he really couldn't differentiate their local symbols for gender (if they even _were_ for gender, for all Jim knew they could split their bathrooms up by hair colour) and he figure Spock might not be able to, either. But nothing.

The bridge got back to him. All the sensors could really tell was that he was still at the party. The place was too crowded and the crush of people too close together to get much more than that.

So. Apparently Spock had learned how to turn himself invisible. Either that or the sensors were broken. Jim set about asking the Aravans, trying to figure out if anyone had seen his wayward first officer. They were friendly and tried to be helpful, but as near as could be told, no one had seen even a hint of him for hours.

"Fucking sensors are broken," Jim concluded darkly to himself, calling up to the ship again.

Spock was still missing.

They brainstormed.

Pretty much everyone must have been standing huddled around the communications console, because soon enough he had the entire bridge crew plus Scotty – who'd been left in command when they beamed down, and so just then technically _was_ part of the bridge crew – chiming in with suggestions. Chekov was dead certain that someone had set up a false sensor reading and kidnapped Spock to add him to an elaborate collection of exotic alien hybrids. Sulu decided that they should broaden the scope of the search, because if that was the case, they might get a second sensor reading elsewhere on the planet. He actually _left_ to go _do this_, which meant that either some of Chekov's peculiar brand of insanity was rubbing off on him, or they really were that short on theories.

Uhura was running on the idea that he was at the party, and Jim just kept missing him. Which in one sense was just her being optimistic, and in another was kind of insulting to Jim's observational skills. It was pretty hard for him to be in the same room as Spock and not notice.

For, you know, completely legitimate reasons which probably had to do with how tall the guy was and stuff.

Finally, the debate was settled when Scotty declared that he was coming down to set up a temporary sensor rig on the surface and get to the bottom of this.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Scotty," Jim wavered, caught between common sense – Scotty + Diplomacy = War – and the urge to find his first officer.

"Dinnae worry, Captain, ah'll keep to myself," the chief engineer assured him, and that seemed to pretty much be that, because this party was going to last for a whole week and he'd like to find Spock sometime before it was over.

So with a feeling of sincere foreboding, Jim approved, and a few minutes later Scotty beamed down with several packages of equipment and got to work.

Unfortunately, the Aravans proved to be very curious about what was going on. Jim didn't know if explaining his disappearing first officer would cause an incident or not, but there wasn't much getting around it. The hosts seemed more interested in Scotty than anything else. Soon enough a little cluster of them had gathered around the chief engineer, and after a few minutes, Jim figured out that they liked his accent.

He guessed when they started trying to imitate it.

As amusing as it was to watch Scotty then proceed to _correct_ their accents, Jim took the opportunity of the shift in the crowd to give the room another search. But there was nothing but more Aravans, the semi-ravaged buffet tables, and the open dance floor. He checked the bathrooms again, just for good measure, and actually located a storage cupboard that was _probably_ too small for Spock, but he looked in it anyway, because for all he knew Vulcans could squish themselves up like octopi.

Unless Spock had figured out how to turn himself into hand soap and towels, though, he wasn't in there.

Finally, Jim gave up on any remaining sense of subtlety and just gave into instinct. He started bellowing.

"SPOCK! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?"

Fortunately, the Aravans just seemed to find this amusing, and chuckled and grinned and hugged him for it. He was complimented on being 'good and boisterous', which seemed kind of beside the point when Spock didn't immediately turn up to tell him off for making unnecessary noise.

A couple of hours went by as Scotty set up his rig, and Jim reluctantly went back to mingling in the party even as he devoted himself to finding clues as to his first officer's whereabouts. And shouting when he thought of it, because if it amused the hosts and made him feel like he was doing something, it definitely couldn't hurt.

It was as he was passing one of the tables that he heard it. He was shouting Spock's name, and paused to draw breath to do so again, and then it came to him. Just the tiniest little shuffling of sound. It could have been nothing. But it put a suspicion in his head. Except that, no way, because Spock would _never…_

Jim frowned and then promptly dropped to the floor, catching himself with his hands so that he was in the standard position for doing push-ups, and peering under the low-slung tables.

And there he was.

Below the trail of the decorative red cloth, plastered between the legs and up against one of the walls, his eyes shut tightly and his arms around himself. Jim's jaw dropped.

"…Spock?" he said, even though if sound was going to do it then all the shouting would have worked. Unthinkingly, he reached out to grab his first officer's shoulder, just to lightly shake him and try to snap him out of whatever state he was in.

It was a bad idea.

A feeling like fire surged up his hand, and he was suddenly hit with a wave of fear and pain and overload, much, much too much, like trying to contain a flood with sandbags that just kept spilling, muddying the waters and draining him out as other things rushed in. Too many people. Too much contact.

Oh, _fuck_.

Why the hell hadn't he said something?

Jim frowned. Because he was arrogant and stubborn and always trying to prove how controlled he could be, that was why. With a heavy exhalation Jim pulled out his communicator and called up to the ship, hoping this kind of damage wasn't permanent. That it was more like being really, really tired than it was, say, going insane.

"I found him," he said. "Lock onto my communicator and beam him to sickbay, tell Bones I think he overdid it on the physical contact."

It was all business from his crew's end, and he didn't quite realize that the tone of his voice had as much to do with that as the words and message he'd sent. Careful not to touch Spock, Jim lay his communicator with him, and watched as the wisps of dematerialization swallowed him up. Then he turned and went to collect Scotty. He wasn't staying at the party when he didn't even know if Spock had broken himself or not.

"Hey, Scotty, I found him," he said, and then looked up to see his chief engineer surrounded by a swarm of Aravans. Which wouldn't have been so weird.

Except that they were all eating sandwiches.

"Can yeh believe it, Captain?" Scotty said. "Ah just had 'em beam me down a bite to eat, seeing as ah missed supper, and it turns out the food they have down here's absolute _shite_. So ah offered 'em a couple a pieces and had the lads send down some more. And they love it!"

Jim blinked.

Then he frowned.

Then he did a mental checklist.

Okay, that was just not fun.

Since Scotty seemed to be like crack to these people, Jim told him to stay as long as he wanted, and beamed himself back aboard the ship. He made a bee-line for sickbay, where he found Bones swearing at Spock.

Some of the worry uncoiled from his gut. If Spock was getting cursed out then it meant he wasn't dying. Probably. Then again, with Bones, sometimes it was hard to tell. They were in one of the far alcoves, and a lot of hand-gesturing was going on. Although not on Spock's part, obviously.

"Sooo…" he said, striding over, and then ducking as an angry CMO whipped around and leveled a glare at him.

"And what in hell did _you_ think you were doing, Jim, just letting those aliens run rampant all over a touch-telepath? You'd better tell me that goddamn transporter forgot to send you your _brain_ along with the rest of you because if you hadn't found him when you did-"

"Hey! How should I know how much he can take?" Jim defended, taking a step back because Bones was in full-blown angry doctor mode, and that usually meant he was liable to get yelled at even more than usual.

Bones scowled at him. "You spend enough of your damn time watching him, you think you'd pick some things up after a while," he snapped.

Jim froze, because that comment had come out of _nowhere_. He didn't spend a lot of time watching Spock.

This was just further proof that every friend he had was in some small, tiny way completely out of their minds.

"Doctor," Spock said, sounding a little quiet but otherwise fine. "Do not blame the captain. I am responsible for monitoring my own well-being, particularly in fields in which humans have little frame of reference for comprehension."

"I'm blaming _both_ of you idiots," Bones declared with feeling, turning back to Spock, who was laid out quietly and watching them with an expression that seemed tired. Inexplicably so, at first, until Jim realized that it was because his eyelids were drooping just a bit.

Jim folded his arms. "Well, I'm just blaming Spock. Why didn't you tell me when they started hugging you that it was too much?" he asked, pushing past Bones to stand near his first officer's head. The doctor grumbled something he didn't quite catch under his breath and then moved off, rolling his eyes as he did so.

"I was unprepared for the sustained nature of their physical interactions," Spock confessed. "By the time I realized it was overwhelming me, I did attempt to locate you, but I was unable to do so before succumbing to the stress of the situation."

…Oh, sure, _now_ make Jim feel like the jerk. Alright, so maybe Bones had a point. He should have kept a closer eye on his first officer.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked, frowning a little – he'd been doing a lot of that since Spock's disappearing act – and kicking one shoe idly against the side of the medical bed. Spock closed his eyes briefly.

"I have suffered no lasting trauma," he assured him. "Although I must request that you refrain from your usual displays of human camaraderie for the next few days, at least."

Jim looked at him for a moment. "You mean, I shouldn't touch you?" he clarified.

"For a few days," Spock confirmed.

Which gave him pause. He looked at his first officer, thinking about the unspoken implication of that statement. Because asking him _not_ to touch him for several days implied that Jim should feel free to _resume_ touching him after that period had passed.

Huh. Maybe Spock was more diplomatic around humans than he'd thought.

Or – and this was the idea Jim preferred – maybe he just didn't mind a few friendly claps on the shoulder as much as he let on. Because Spock actually looked just the tiniest bit… well, _apologetic_, over the whole thing. And tense.

"Fair enough. I can wait," Jim assured him with his best smile.

Spock looked at his face for a moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed.


	14. Too Many Kirks

**Author's Note:** Alright, so this picks up from where 'Far Too Many Spocks' leaves off. It was one of the ones I had to re-write so I don't know how well it holds up, because I don't mind re-writing when it's more like doing a different version, but actually just re-writing the same exact content is harder because it's less exciting. Still, enjoy! (Hopefully).

---

"Scan the anomaly!"

Of course, they were _already_ scanning the anomaly, but the words escaped Jim's lips almost as soon as Spock's form vanished from his arms. "And the planet." What if it was some strange, hence unknown transporter technology that he'd just witnessed? He didn't know what the hell had just happened, although it seemed more likely that whatever was out there had something to do with his first officer vanishing.

It might also explain why they'd been picking up Spocks left and right through the transporter lately.

His gaze flew towards his captain's chair, but the other Spock was gone, too. He moved over to the nearest com system and opened the line to his quarters. One frantic, short conversation later he managed to establish from Nurse Chapel that the little Spock had disappeared as well.

They were all gone.

"Keptan," he heard Chekov say, sounding shocked. "I am reading Wulcan lifesigns in the anomaly!"

If Jim's heart hadn't already stopped, it would have. The anomaly was out in _space_. Where there was a decided lack of things like, oh, say, _life_-_support,_ which meant his first thought was that Spock was dead. But if they were picking up lifesigns, then he couldn't be dead…

"Can we get a transporter lock?" he demanded. The intent silence of people working hard to try and figure out the answer was his only immediate reply.

It would prove to be the question of the hour.

---

The tension in the conference room was thick enough to cut up and serve buffet-style. Jim was supposedly sitting, even though he kept pressing his hands against the table as if he wanted nothing more than to rush out and do something. The problem was that there wasn't anything he _could_ do outside of the conference room right then. Bones was wearing the frustrated tension of a man who knew how serious the situation was, but also knew that his own set of skills were more or less useless to it. Scotty had the opposite problem – of all the men at the table he was the best equipped to figure out what the hell had just happened, and he clearly felt that pressure keenly.

Chekov had been included due to the fact that he was a genius and made an impressive hobby of understanding transporter systems, so he was very likely to see any possibilities that Scotty missed. He had his shoulders hunched and looked nervous, and the fact that this was his first time being included in such a conference probably didn't help matters much.

"So we know the three of them are out there," Jim said at length, his voice coming out hard. The sensors had been checked and double-checked, and were working fine. Which meant their readings were, however inexplicable, presumably accurate. "But we can't get a lock on any of them?"

"Well, now, ah wouldna say that," Scotty insisted, shaking his head in a more absent-minded gesture than a deliberate denial. "But the interference is a right nightmare. If there's a way, we'll have ta invent it ourselves. Not that we haven't done that before, o' course, but ah cannae make any promises." He looked deeply apologetic about this, as if his inability to guarantee as-yet unmade advances in transporter technology should be a black mark on his record.

Jim considered their options for the nine hundredth time. "If they're alive," he said, "then there must be something to _support_ life in the anomaly. What if someone were to pilot a shuttle into it?" he suggested. 'Someone', of course, being himself. Because even though it definitely wasn't regulation for the captain to go on rescue missions, he quite frankly didn't give a flying fuck at that point, and he wasn't sending anyone else.

Bones caught on right away. "That's nuts, Jim," he said, scowling at him. "You don't even know if a shuttle can make it _to_ whatever part of that thing's got Spock."

"Yeah," he admitted. "But I'm not hearing any better ideas. We should still work on the transporters, of course, but it's been an hour already, and we don't know what's happening to them…" he trailed off, trying to stop himself short of letting his personal life into the discussion. He bit off a curse and his hands twitched atop the table.

The words 'emotionally compromised' darted through his head. But no one around him said it, so that either meant he hadn't gone completely off the deep-end yet, or they were all in denial.

Or maybe a little bit of both.

He tried to avoid thinking about how much he could have used Spock's two cents right then. Instead he clenched a fist against the table top, and reminded himself to exhale. "Alright," he said. "Scotty, I want you and Chekov working on the transporter systems. Do whatever you have to in order to break that inference and get a lock. I'm going to take a shuttle with a signal booster into the anomaly – even if I can't break through, that should help the sensors do it. That means you've got the _Enterprise_ while I'm gone, Mr. Scott, but I recommend you leave Sulu with the conn unless something _else_ happens in the meantime." He stood up from the table, his hands clenching unconsciously, his entire frame radiating tension through the room. His mouth was dry as he swallowed, but at least now he had something other than straws to grasp at. "Bones, make sure sickbay's ready. We don't know what condition they're in."

Scotty and Chekov moved off to follow orders with an 'aye, sir' and a 'yes, Keptan', but of course, the CMO wasn't so accommodating.

"You realize that this is _insane_, right?" he asked instead, reaching out with one hand to grip Jim's arm and give a shake for emphasis. "Whatever's happening out there, wherever Spock _is_, you're not gonna help him any by flying into the damn thing and probably getting yourself killed. And then with _my_ luck you do realize that that green-blooded, self-righteous elf is going to reappear right after that happens? At which point he'll separate my head from my damn shoulders for letting you do something this stupid?"

"…Probably," Jim agreed, not feeling the lightness which he forced into his tone. "But look on the bright side, Bones. At least we could have one of those fun joint-funerals."

"I'm all aquiver with anticipation," the doctor deadpanned.

Jim shifted, clasping his shoulder briefly. "Don't worry," he advised. "It's me, and it's a crazy plan, remember? That almost guarantees it'll work."

Bones didn't look convinced. In fact he looked more like he was considering using his position as CMO to declare Jim unfit for duty and have him shackled to the medical bay.

He didn't, though.

Instead he swore under his breath and made his way for the exit, shooting one last, disapproving glance over his shoulder. Jim watched him go, and then called down the Shuttlebay One and had them prepare for launch. He frowned at his own distorted reflection against the console screen after it cleared.

A thought occurred to him, and after a moment, he called up the star charts for the area they were in. It was neutral territory near Tholian space. Their mission had been to perform standard scans and a quick border patrol, essentially to check that the Tholian Assembly hadn't started to stir in the Federation's direction. There were a few odd reports about the area, cases of ships disappearing and bizarre spatial fluctuations.

After a minute, Jim called up classified information on the _Narada_ incident, suspicions growing. They were pretty far from where the first energy storm had appeared. He already knew that. However, if one were to take the star charts and wrap them around like a sphere…

The locations overlapped almost perfectly.

Which could have been a coincidence, but it was a pretty fucking big one if that were the case. Particularly since whatever it was seemed to have a definite selectivity for Spocks, and he knew for a fact that at least one Spock had broken through the fabric of space and time without anybody else's help. After thinking for a moment, he called engineering.

"Mr. Chekov," he addressed.

"Yes, Keptan?" the familiar voice drifted back.

He cleared his throat. "While I'm gone, you might want to look into Spatial Interphase phenomenon," he advised.

There was a pause. Then an exclamation in Russian. Then what might have been 'aye, sir' followed by the sound of running feet, and what was almost definitely Scotty's voice saying 'watch that railing, Pavel'. So he figured the ensign was on the job, and, closing the connection, made his way down to the hangar.

Although if he were being honest, it was less 'made his way' and more 'practically ran'.

Despite that, however, it actually took nearly another hour for the transmitter to be readied, and by the time he finally launched Jim was penning angry letters in his head to the space-time continuum. Most of them went to the general tune of 'if you don't stop it with Spock, I will mess your shit up, and don't think I can't do it either'. He was pretty sure that making threats against existence qualified as a slippery slope, but at that point he didn't particularly care.

Shuttles were remarkably confining, comparatively fragile things when held up against the norms of space flight. Jim plotted his course and stared out at the broad expanse around him as the engines thrummed through the floorboards. On some strange, instinctive level, there was a certain eeriness to being alone in one. Not that he'd ever voice it out loud, and not that he paid much attention to it as he flew towards a seemingly innocuous stretch of black void and distant stars.

The shuttle's less complex sensors didn't have a hope of sorting out what the _Enterprise_'s failed to comprehend, but he still checked them over carefully as he neared the anomaly. It was only the viewscreen which picked up the subtle, slightly green mist, and then only once he'd flown into it. Uhura's voice drifted towards him over the com. It was broken up and distorted, but he managed to pick out the word 'captain' in there somewhere.

"Kirk here," he replied. "You're breaking up, Lieutenant. If you can hear me, I'm fine, but I think I've entered the anomaly."

After a minute he got more mangled gibberish, and with an almost absent-minded gesture closed down the communication link. Seeing green – even green of completely the wrong shade – misted through the area like exploded particles was deeply unsettling.

He cursed into the steady hum of the shuttle, because he could see no signs of anything life-sustaining. Just this unusual cloud in this unusual space.

That was about when the ringing started.

It began in an almost unnoticeable way, the kind of sound you hear immediately after listening to something at too loud a volume. But then it built up, a low whine that had him scowling and checking the shuttle's systems, suddenly alarmed that something was overloading. He whipped his heard around as it grew louder, because if it was _that_ critical then he would be able to see some sign of it, and then the pain exploded like stars within his skull. He let out a surprised cry of anguish and clapped his hands instinctively over his ears, shaking and shuddering in his seat until his eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he collapsed.

A few moments later, the shuttle lost its only pilot and passenger.

---

The first thing he became aware of was warmth on his face. Summer warmth, like the few times he'd wandered into one of the fields near his house as a kid and just stretched out on the grass to watch the sky, and accidentally fallen asleep. It pressed down on his eyelids and made him conscious of the tight, hot, heavy feeling of the skin on his face, and the dusty scent which filled his nose.

The second thing he became aware of was the prod of something – hard and rounded, like the toe of a shoe – against his side.

He opened his eyes, blinking past the glare of a sun overhead, and squinted at the small figure who immediately jerked back from his line of vision. Dusty blond hair and a jacket that was distinctly familiar, if not yet grown into. Jim's head reeled as he sat up, one hand grating against hard, rocky earth, and wondered what the hell had just happened. Again.

"Holy shit, I'm dead," a young voice said from not too far away. Jim blinked over at the eleven-year-old standing not far from him. The kid was undeniably familiar. Like, photo-album familiar. Because he looked _exactly_ like he had at that age, right down to the awkward haircut and the near-growth-spurt build. "Does it always feel like crap when you die? I mean afterwards?" he wondered, looking down at his hands and blinking between himself and Jim.

"We're not dead," Jim countered, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his uniform as he took in their surroundings and wondered how he'd managed to wake up in a desert with a younger version of himself. He was _pretty_ sure he wasn't dead, anyway. If he was then the afterlife was decidedly weirder than anticipated.

Although, being trapped in a desert for eternity with an obnoxious kid might qualify as hell. And if that kid happened to be who he thought he was, then he was _guaranteed_ to be obnoxious.

Nervous eyes darted in his direction, and Mini-Jim swallowed, shaking his head a little. "I don't even know… how'd it happen, Dad? Why'd I…" his voice trailed off, and Jim felt a momentary surge of panic at being addressed as 'dad' before he figured out what was going on. Well, to some extent, anyway.

"Calm down," he said. "I'm not your dad, and like I told you, we're not dead."

It was so weird to be talking to another version of, well, _him_. He could kind of see why Spock had hugely avoided it now.

His words seemed to get his younger self thinking, though, and after a minute there was a small frown on his face as he stared at Jim. "Uniform's wrong," he noted softly, almost under his breath, as if he was comparing Jim to the memory of a photograph. Which he probably was.

Jim could even guess which photo.

"I'm not your father," he said again. "I'm _you_. From the future. I think. Probably another dimension, too." He was starting to build a theory about what was happening, although it had a lot of holes. But if he had to guess, he'd say that this was Mini-Spock's Mini-Jim.

His younger self blinked at him, and then after a long, considering moment, made a face. "Why the _hell_ did you join _Starfleet_?!" he demanded.

Which, of course, would naturally be a more pressing issue than 'where are we' or 'how did we get here' or even 'but that should be impossible'. God he'd been _weird_ as a kid. And foul-mouthed, but he already knew that.

"Because it's awesome," he answered, immediately pointing to his sleeve. "You see these? Captain's stripes. I've got my own _ship_. With a kickass crew and everything."

The kid gave him a skeptical look. "But you're like thirty," he said.

Ouch.

"Nobody makes Captain that young unless it's to get blown up because the original captain's dead."

And there was that odd contradiction of his, hating Starfleet and knowing more about it than anyone not enlisted had any business bothering with. Jim shrugged and moved around the nearest crop of rocks, looking for a likely path that would lead maybe to higher ground. He checked his pockets and found his communicator. It didn't look damaged.

"Yeah, well, that's true," he agreed. "I just did such a good job of not getting blown up that they decided to let me stay captain." He activated the communicator. "Kirk to _Enterprise_, come in _Enterprise_."

He got back nothing back static. With a sigh – because he didn't have the first clue where he was, and so it'd been a long shot that he could reach the ship – he set the thing to transmit on as many signals as possible. "Kirk to Spock. Come in Spock."

Silence.

Not what he was hoping for.

"C'mon, Spock, please tell me you had your motherfucking communicator on you when you disappeared…" he muttered into the device.

"Who's Spock?" his younger self asked.

Jim didn't look at him – 'cause it was kind of freaky to – and instead kept his focus on the device in his hand. "My first officer," he answered vaguely.

"What kind of a name is 'Spock'?"

He frowned, getting nothing but static for another few minutes, and then reluctantly tucked the device back into his pocket.

"An awesome one," he replied. There was a lot of open ground around them, but plenty of it was marred, too, by rocky, dry and mountainous terrain. No signs of water, and only a few colorless, scraggly plants were growing along the base of several large stones. They looked mostly dead. He reminded himself that Vulcans were well-suited to surviving in this kind of climate before deciding on a direction, and then finally looking at his younger self again. He knew he'd be scared even if he wasn't showing it.

"He's half Vulcan," he elaborated, and then gestured towards him. "Come on. If I'm right, he's around here _somewhere_."

The shuttle was gone, though, so how they would get back to the ship should prove to be an interesting challenge. _One thing at a time._

"So, how did we get here?" Mini-Jim finally asked, his shoes scuffing up the dirt as he fell into step alongside him. The air around them was definitely a little hotter than would be comfortable, but it could have been worse.

With a shrug, Jim confessed that he wasn't completely certain. He gave him a brief run-down of the situation – multiple Spocks coming through the transporter, the anomaly, the Spocks vanishing, all of that. He was a smart kid, if nothing else, so he figured he could handle it. And he did.

"_Cool_," Mini-Jim decided. "Are we gonna go back to our ship?"

Jim gave him a look. "_My_ ship," he corrected. "You don't get anything until you fight a giant claw-machine from the future."

Mini-Jim gave him a look which implied that he was wondering what kind of head trauma he would eventually suffer that would lead to this. "A giant claw-machine from the future?" he asked, his voice heavy with skepticism. "Are you making shit up?"

"I wish."

Most of Jim's focus was on their surroundings, but he did keep one eye on his younger self. After a few minutes the kid stripped off his jacket and slung it over his head to help block the sun. "Too hot," he mumbled to himself, and Jim found that he had to agree. The uneven terrain made it easy to stumble as well, although both of them were fairly adept at keeping their balance – him because of his combat training, and his younger self presumably because of his lower center of gravity. Still, the rocks were proving to be a huge pain in the ass, particularly because they were at the wrong angle to provide any shade, and were tall enough to disguise things from view.

Like the unconscious guy wearing a gold sash. Jim nearly tripped over him as they passed one particularly large boulder.

He managed to pull away from him and avoid touching him, though. Mini-Jim gave him a curious look. "Wow," he said after a silent minute. "He's even older than _you_."

Jim snorted.

It didn't take a genius to figure out who the guy was. The resemblance was clear, although if he had to guess he'd say that, inexplicably, this version was a bit shorter than him. Maybe he skipped a growth spurt for some reason? Regardless, the sash and the gaudy, pirate-y uniform heavily implied the man's identity.

So, this was the mass-slaughtering 'puppet' captain from Beardy-Spock's universe. Evil-Jim.

"Careful. He's evil."

Mini-Jim gave him a questioning look.

"The sash gave him away," he clarified helpfully.

"…People who wear sashes are evil?" the kid asked, moving over towards Evil-Jim's head and looking down at his face.

"No," Jim replied, wondering what they ought to do with him. His face was clearly sunburned, and at this rate he'd die of exposure or something if they just left him there. Which he might have deserved, but Jim honestly wasn't big on killing people. It was particularly freaky when they looked _just like him_. "Beardy-Spock had a sash, and he was pretty clear on the whole 'the Jim from my universe is a bastard' front, so it's a safe bet," he explained.

Mini-Jim seemed to consider this. "He's still passed out," he noted. "Think it's 'cause he's old?"

"He's not _old_," Jim said with some annoyance, even though the kid probably had a point. If he'd woken up first, and Jim second, then it stood to reason that whatever had dragged them there was more draining for adults. It made him glad that the old man hadn't been aboard the ship.

His younger self just rolled his eyes and then set to prodding the unconscious Evil-Jim with the toe of his shoe.

Jim drew his phaser.

After a few moments, the muscles on Evil-Jim's face twitched, and Mini-Jim moved quickly back. Jim could tell what was going through his mind – he didn't want to _seem_ scared, but at the same time, he wasn't going to take the whole 'this guy's totally evil' warning and toss it out of the window.

He focused most of his attention on his slightly older self, however, watching as the discomfort of his situation began to show in his expression, and his eyes blinked uncomfortably open. The first image which the sash-wearing man was greeted with was Jim, phaser leveled and expression hard. With a groan, he lowered a hand to his face, and then winced as the tender skin was irritated by the gesture. "What is this _nightmare_?" he demanded, sounding more than a little annoyed as he struggled his way up to his feet, clearly disoriented.

"You're not dreaming," Jim informed him.

"Don't sweat it, though," his younger self added helpfully, drawing Evil-Jim's attention in his direction for the first time. "I thought I was dead. The only one who's on the ball is the sell_-_out here."

"Hey. I'm _you_," Jim reminded him. "If I'm a sell-out then that means that you're _going_ to be one."

Mini-Jim made a face. Evil-Jim blinked a few times, and then, quicker than Jim expected, produced a phaser that had been tucked away from sight in the back of his belt. "I want answers," he growled out, leveling the weapon at his most obvious opponent – Jim – as his gaze darted between the two of them. "Who put you up to this? Scott? Giotto?" He backed away from them a little, and Jim wondered if he was unhinged. It would explain a lot. "I'll admit, the uniform's right, and the physical similarities are uncanny," he said. "But the age is all wrong – so what's this game supposed to be? What are you after?_"_

Jim exchanged a glance with Mini-Jim.

"Are you sure you meant 'evil' and not 'crazy'?" Mini-Jim asked, and damn, but he guessed he'd always been mouthy, even when there was a phaser-toting maniac within earshot.

"It's probably both," he replied, before he answered Evil-Jim's erratic assessment of the situation. "I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm guessing you're missing a Spock?"

Evil-Jim's eyes narrowed. "Spock?" he asked, seeming to waver slightly. "Spock died in a transporter accident. We lost his signal. He's gone."

"He's not," Jim countered. Then he amended. "I mean, he didn't die in the transporter. He wound up on my ship. In another timeline and universe."

There was a still, quiet moment of tension as Evil-Jim seemed to mull this over in his head. His breathing was heavy, and it was clear that lying out in the sun for a long time hadn't suited him. Jim was pretty sure he could take him in a fight. On the other hand, the phaser he was holding looked decidedly meaner than the standard issue Starfleet ones. He had a feeling it didn't come with stun settings.

Eventually, the tension cracked – only slightly – as Evil-Jim let out a barked, stilted laugh.

"_Again?_" he demanded, shaking his head. "I wasn't even using the transporter! How do you explain that?"

Jim shrugged. "Magic?" he suggested. At Evil-Jim's dark look, he rolled his eyes, and then began the tedious process of describing his perspective and theories on their situation for the second time. Mini-Jim watched them in silence for several minutes, eventually dropping onto the ground cross-legged and tenting himself under his jacket, head cocked to one side. Once the explanation had finished, he spoke up again.

"Why're you so short?" he asked, nodding towards Evil-Jim. "And how come your eyes are a different colour?"

"Don't ask stupid questions," Evil-Jim snapped at him. Then, after a moment, he reluctantly lowered his weapon a little. Jim took the hint and followed suit, although they both kept their phasers close at hand. "So if your little 'theory' is correct and this whole thing isn't just some elaborate game, then Spock should be here." His gaze darted across their surroundings. "We need to find shelter."

"We need to find _Spock_…s," Jim corrected, tapering off a little awkwardly at the end. Evil-Jim gave him a withering look.

"Spock can look after himself," he said. "Especially on a rock like this. We three? We'll die if we don't think smart, and believe me, I know how to think smart." He smirked a little then, a deeply unpleasant expression on his face. Jim made a mental note to avoid smirking in the future. "If you're anything like the other fools I've seen wearing that uniform, I'm guessing that's not a talent you have."

Mini-Jim snickered. Jim shot him a betrayed look. "Hey," he said. "Blue-eyes, remember, _I'm_ future-you. He's _evil_-you."

The kid raised his hands defensively after he pulled himself up from the ground. "Hey, if I'm from another universe, then I'm not _either_ of you," he pointed out, and Jim was given a sudden insight as to why so many people had called him a 'smartass' over the years.

Evil-Jim had an equally displeased expression on his face. "Now I think I know why so many people have tried to beat me to death over the years," he expressed.

There was an awkward pause.

Jim took a moment to muse that, yes, there _were_ in fact universes more fucked up than his own. Apparently without Nero's help, even.

Mini-Jim looked vaguely disconcerted. "…Okay," he said, turning to Jim. "Got it. _You're_ future-me. I think I can live with that, even if you don't have a cool sash or anything."

"Great," Jim approved with just a hint of sarcasm, deciding that now probably wasn't the time to think of the incidents in his life where someone had, in fact, tried to beat him to death. He doubted they were as numerous as the ones in Evil-Jim's life, anyway. At least _his_ brain hadn't made the jump straight from 'obnoxious kid' to 'try and kill'.

Evil-Jim gave them both a derisive snort and then started walking, casting the sky above them an annoyed glance. The direction he moved in was the rock-lined path ahead, but he was careful never to completely put his back to them, and there was an alertness to his motions that reminded Jim of a really jumpy animal.

Jim considered just letting him go on his own way. But frankly he didn't have a better direction to head in, and if they found shelter that would probably be good for the kid. And for himself, if he was being honest. The sun was going to get higher in the sky before it got any lower. As much of an ass as he apparently was, Evil-Jim did make a good point when he mentioned that, if their situations were the same, the Spocks wouldn't be in as dire a situation as they were. So he moved to follow after him, and Mini-Jim went beside him, sticking a little closer than he had before.

After a minute it became apparent that the kid's arms were tired as he gave up on trying to hold his jacket and just let it drape over him, covering most of his face and making Jim wonder how he could see until he realized that he was just looking down, watching their feet instead of the path. He figured it out when he nearly walked into an outcropping of rock, and Jim only just managed to pull him out of the way in time.

He sighed. This was like a very creative nightmare.

"Say," Evil-Jim asked him after several minutes of walking over rocks and presumably searching for some kind of suitable out-cropping or cave. "Exactly how old are you?"

It was clear he was addressing Jim and not Mini-Jim, so the kid didn't even bother answering.

"Twenty-seven," Jim replied.

Evil-Jim let out a low whistle. "Captain at twenty-seven?" he asked. "You must've killed a lot of people to get that far that quickly."

Jim bristled at first, his mind immediately turning to how many _had_ died in order for him to get his promotion, regardless of the fact that it hadn't been at his hand. Then he scowled. "I kill people when they try to kill me. Not for any other reason," he said.

"How'd you know he was a captain?" Mini-Jim asked, seemingly unbothered by discussions of murder and self-defense. Then again, he was eleven. His concept of what it was to kill a man probably hadn't fallen into full-swing yet. Jim tried to remember back to when he was that young, but apart from a general sense of activities and a few choice, vivid recollections, it was pretty sketchy.

Evil-Jim gestured towards Jim's shirt. "I recognize his uniform," he explained. "The last time this damn multi-universe insanity fell on me I found myself on another _Enterprise_, dressed in those clothes. Any idiot with an eye for hierarchy could tell the bands on the arms mark rank."

Mini-Jim glanced at his captain's stripes in an interested sort of way. Jim mused that, in a cutthroat universe, a person probably got pretty quick at figuring out how to tell who was in charge.

They fell into a more or less uncomfortable silence after that, Jim wondering what to make of this somewhat feral, mass-murdering, and yet clearly intelligent version of himself as they plodded along the terrain. Every now and then he tried his communicator again. There were no objections, although it eventually prodded his younger self to ask a few more questions about Spock. Right about the same time the heat and thirst were clearly getting to the kid, too, causing him to stumble more frequently.

"You flew a shuttle into a weird anomaly thing for him," Mini-Jim said. "Even _I_ know that's kind of crazy. Cool, too, though," he added, and Jim caught his arm to keep him from falling over as he wobbled on a particularly uneven step.

"Yeah, well," he replied. "Spock's important."

Evil-Jim shot him a glance.

"The arrogant bastard would certainly think so himself," he contributed harshly.

"Arrogant?" the kid asked him, shifting his jacket to glance up from beneath it. In a sense of fairness and honesty, Jim made a so-so gesture with his hand. Mini-Jim seemed to find that amusing. He laughed a little, the sound unsettlingly dry.

"He'd say he was being 'accurate', and he pretty much is – but yeah. He's not a bastard, though. He just sometimes unintentionally acts like one."

Mini-Jim snickered some more.

"Sounds like my kind of guy," he noted.

"He is," both Jim and Evil-Jim said in unison. They glanced at each other in uncomfortable surprise, and Mini-Jim's laughs tapered off into an awkward cough. Uneasy silence reigned for several minutes.

Then the whining started.

"I'm _thirsty,_ dammit," Mini-Jim said. "What if this rock's just one big old dirtball with nothing else on it? We're gonna to die of exposure. This _sucks_."

He continued in that vein for a while, his voice carrying over the rocks as they slowly evened out into more open terrain. Jim felt vaguely annoyed. At the same time, however, similar thoughts were going through his own head, and he couldn't really blame a kid for having less self-restraint than he did. There was something inherently cathartic about bitching.

Apparently Evil-Jim wasn't quite so diplomatic.

"_Quiet,_" he finally snapped at Mini-Jim after the complaining had dragged on, whipping around and glaring at him as the sweat shone across his frame. "Don't think because you're _me_ or because you're a _child_ that I'd have any qualms with cutting out your tongue, boy." On that note he ducked down and whipped back up a moment later, a knife drawn from his boot in one hand.

Jim's phaser was leveled at his head before he'd even straightened completely. "Back off," he warned. Cutting out _tongues?_ Seriously? This whole 'pirate' thing was getting ridiculous.

Evil-Jim eyed him for a moment, knife glinting in the sunlight, clearly comparing about how quickly he could draw his own phaser against how quickly Jim could shoot him in the face.

The numbers he was coming up with probably weren't good.

After a moment, he spread his free hand open in a mock placating gesture, and then leaned down and deliberately tucked his weapon back into his boot.

The end result probably got what he'd intended either way, since Mini-Jim went conspicuously silent for quite a while.

Time seemed to crawl along, the terrain opening further, but still remaining unyielding and harsh around them. They _did_ manage to shift into an area that afforded them some shade, however, as a few hours passed and their movement conspired with the progress of the sun to afford them that much relief. And then, finally, Evil-Jim made a vaguely triumphant sound, and disappeared into the rocks ahead of them.

Jim glanced at his younger self, who looked as bedraggled and frustrated as he felt, before following after him. It immediately became clear where Evil-Jim had vanished to – beyond a large, craggy expanse of stone and dirt to one side of their path was a broad opening in an even larger rock face, the base of a cliff which stretched above them. It was wide enough for three people to walk into it side by side, and tall enough that he only had to duck a little bit to avoid smacking his skull against it. Evil-Jim had already proceeded inside, examining the structure and moving with determined steps. Jim thought he could tell what had him excited, even more than the natural shelter – there was the distant trickle of water to be heard, unless his ears were playing tricks on him.

Mini-Jim let out a heartfelt exhalation of air and immediately followed Evil-Jim further inside, slumping against the craggy wall a ways in and eventually lowering himself into a sitting position on the floor. "_Finally,_" he said, and Jim guessed that for all his bravado, the impromptu adventure was taking a mean toll on him. He moved inside the entryway as well, ducking low and feeling a distinctive rush of relief once he was out of the sunlight. As he did, he wondered how far the opening went. There was a downward slope to the ground and 'ceiling', which was shaped like a 'V' as the rocks of the cave leaned in on one another.

Evil-Jim vanished into the gloom, and Jim's eyes needed a second to adjust to seeing without the glare of open sunlight, so he took a moment to try the communicator again.

He was almost shocked out of his skin when he got an answer this time. Particularly because it didn't actually _come_ from the communicator.

"Captain!" a small, serious voice exclaimed, and there was the sound of hurried footsteps from around the opening, and he felt a crushing relief grab hold of his chest. Because even if this wasn't _his_ Spock it was _a_ Spock, and if one of them were here, then the others would be, too.

Mini-Spock all but dashed into the cave, his shoes tapping distinctively against the rocks, and he stopped just short of Jim. Jim who suffered none of the restraint typical of Vulcans, and so immediately lowered himself to one knee and clasped the boy's shoulders, taking in his poorly-suppressed relief and somewhat dusty appearance. He didn't look as bad-off as Mini-Jim, but his shoulders were shaking ever-so-slightly under his grasp.

"Spock," he said, as Mini-Jim watched them with open curiosity. "Are you alright?"

"I believe I am unharmed," the little half-Vulcan replied, exhaling slowly. "I was examining the meditation lamp in your quarters when I experienced an unpleasant physical sensation and lost consciousness. I awoke here," he explained. "But this location is unfamiliar to me."

"That's okay," Jim assured him. "It's unfamiliar to me, too."

Mini-Spock tilted a head at him questioningly. "Then how did you come to be here?" he asked reasonably. "Were you abducted as well?"

To that, Jim could only shrug, because the specifics were still eluding him. He didn't really feel like going through the process of recounting the whole thing again, though, and so after a moment he glanced at Mini-Jim, and Spock's attention followed suit. His eyes widened marginally as he noted the undeniable physical similarities between the man before him and the boy next to the rock wall.

Mini-Jim gave him a half-hearted wave. "I didn't know Starfleet hired first officers who were that short," he quipped. Jim rolled his eyes.

"This isn't _my_ Spock," he said. "This is _your_ Spock."

His younger self seemed to consider that for a moment.

Mini-Spock blinked. "You seem predisposed towards possessive terminology," he noted.

Jim just smiled and patted him on the head. Of course he wasn't – it was perfectly normal to specify individuals from the respective universes as 'belonging' to their various representatives. But it was kind of cute that it seemed to make Mini-Spock self-conscious. "Why don't you explain things to him while I see what Evil-Us is up to?" he suggested to Mini-Jim.

The kid seemed to consider it for a moment, taking in his future first officer with obvious curiosity, and then shrugged. "Sure," he said, waving a hand to indicate that Spock should come over and sit next to him.

Spock hesitated, his gaze flitting between the two Jims.

"Go on," Jim advised. "He doesn't bite."

That comment earned him a slightly alarmed look from the young half-Vulcan. "I was unaware that such a risk even existed," he said.

Mini-Jim laughed even as Jim himself grinned.

"It's just a figure of speech," he explained, and then with a gentle push, directed him over to his kid-self. Who had absolutely zero qualms about then reaching over and all but dragging Spock into sitting next to him. It must have been willing, though, because Jim knew full well that Spock could have stopped him if he wanted to.

He tuned out their conversation as Mini-Jim began to lay down what was going on, and instead turned his attention towards proceeding deeper into the cave. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and after several minutes of searching he found Evil-Jim lingering below ground level, just beyond a fairly steep drop towards the blocked end of the main segment. A trickle of moisture ran down from a crack along the top of the rocky opening – the source of the softly running water he'd heard.

It was a shame that he didn't have any canisters with him. Or a tricorder to make sure that the stuff really was _water_ and not some alien equivalent that would melt his insides. Evil-Jim seemed to be thinking along similar lines.

"We should feed it to the boy first," he suggested, and in all honesty with the wicked smile that curved his lips Jim couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

Rather than commenting on that assessment he extended a hand towards the trickle nearest to him, not bothering to make his way down into the half-buried section which his other self occupied, where he could see the faintly glittering outline of a pool. He then pressed the dampened fingers tentatively to his tongue.

Water, it seemed.

He gave it a few minutes, but his body made no protest except to try the limits of his restraint in not drinking more. Eventually satisfied, he glanced down at Evil-Jim, who was watching him keenly, and shrugged. "Seems safe," he confirmed. There were probably all kinds of parasites in it or something equally unpleasant that Bones would give him grief for when he somehow managed to get back, but he could live with that.

With only the slightest signs of hesitancy, Evil-Jim then bent low and cupped a hand into the pool near him as Jim watched from above. He sampled the water carefully, turning it over in his mouth before, eventually, swallowing. Then he looked back up.

"Get the brat," he advised. "He'll be worse off than either of us. You can drop him down to me."

Jim was a little surprised at the distinct change from 'I'll cut his tongue out' to 'he better get a drink'. He honestly didn't know what to make of it, so instead he set it aside for later evaluation. "We found one of the Spocks," he said. Although technically Mini-Spock had found _them_. Evil-Jim narrowed his eyes slightly.

"The boy?" he asked, as if he were psychic. At Jim's inquiring look, he actually elaborated. "If it were the other two they'd probably be back here by now," he reasoned.

"Yeah, it's the little guy," Jim confirmed after a minute. "I'll bring both of them."

Evil-Jim's response was a non-committal shrug. He then bent low and took another drink, and Jim's throat clenched in momentary envy before he moved away to where Mini-Jim and Mini-Spock were conversing in quiet tones.

"…son of a whore," he heard Spock say, entirely without inflection. Mini-Jim grinned and nodded.

"Right," he said. "Only you've gotta work on your tone. It's like '_you bastard son of a whore!'_, you know? _That's_ how you cuss. Like ya mean it."

Jim stared at the two of them incredulously for a moment. Then he planted his face in his hands, noting the intent expression on Mini-Spock's face as he took in this new 'cultural information'.

"Further inflection would be considered an emotional display," the little half-Vulcan explained.

Mini-Jim frowned and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Oh yeah," he said. "I guess so. Okay, how about you try it really _intense_ instead of _mad_? You know, like '_bastard son of a whore',_" he suggested, dropping his voice to a child-like approximation of 'sinister'. Mini-Spock seemed to consider this, and Jim decided to intervene before his younger self succeeded in dooming the future of his universe to having a Spock that actually knew how to swear.

"Hey, kids," he said, breaking in a little awkwardly and clapping one hand against the side of his leg. "There's some running water at the back of the cave."

Mini-Jim was standing up as soon as the word 'water' passed his lips, although Spock just blinked at them both before politely standing himself.

"I was aware of that," he admitted. "I discovered it upon my initial explorations of the immediate vicinity." Then he tilted his head slightly. "I neglected to recall that humans require more frequent hydration than Vulcans." He seemed a little embarrassed about that. Mini-Jim gave him a solid clap on the shoulder, though, which caused his eyes to widen at the unexpected contact, completely changing his expression even as subtle as it was.

"Don't sweat it," the kid said. "One time I over-fed my fish and they all died. Shit happens."

"That is unfortunate," Mini-Spock noted as they followed Jim towards the back wall of their temporary shelter.

"Yeah. It kinda convinced Mom I wasn't ready for a dog, too, which _really_ sucks."

"I had a dog," Evil-Jim contributed as they drew near, and Jim unceremoniously slung his hands underneath Mini-Jim's arms and lowered him down to his less-friendly self. "Vicious thing," he mused with much more fondness than that kind of description would usually be given.

Spock quirked a tiny eyebrow down at him. "Fascinating," he declared, much to Jim's amusement. Evil-Jim gave him an odd look. After a minute, his gaze shifted from the child to the captain standing next to him.

"Should I assume that _your_ Spock is married to that word as well?" he asked in an almost mocking tone of voice.

"Pretty much," he confirmed, grinning over at Mini-Spock, whose ears had darkened in momentary embarrassment. "It's a good word."

"Do I get a word?" Mini-Jim asked, moving away from the pool at last. Evil-Jim grabbed him up again, earning a slightly surprised yelp before he lifted him and Jim managed to take him and set him down next to Spock. The two grown Jims glanced at one another.

"No," Evil-Jim said.

Mini-Jim frowned. He looked like he might protest, but he was distracted by Spock taking the fabric of his t-shirt sleeve between two fingers and giving it a light tug.

"You may use 'fascinating' as well," he offered. "There is no monopoly on word selection."

Jim watched them out of the corner of his eye as he lowered himself down to get his own drink, dropping with ease to land alongside his alter-ego. It looked like the opening had been created by a mixture of erosion and surrounding instability. It wasn't very big, the pool not much wider that his chest, and it was clear that eventually the rest of the rock would be worn down and then not even that much would be stopped up.

He bent to quench his thirst, appreciating the cool and the dark against his skin. It was gritty and not exactly a glass of ice tea, but it did the job.

"Give me your communicator," Evil-Jim said suddenly from over his shoulder, earning himself a surprised glance. He elaborated. "I can reconfigure it to broadcast on a larger range. If this is a planet we've got no guarantee that the other Spocks are anywhere near us. Just the boy," he reasoned.

Jim considered him. He didn't trust him – not because he had the same issues which Spock did, thankfully, but because he had it on a fairly good source that the guy was pretty damn evil. He'd reportedly done things that Jim himself would never do, so his ability to predict him was completely shot right off the bat.

After a minute, he unhooked the communicator from his belt, and tossed it over. Evil-Jim caught it in one hand.

"That was easier than I thought it was going to be," he said. "Is everyone in your universe so trusting?"

"I don't _trust_ you," Jim replied. "But I'm pretty sure you want to find your Spock."

It seemed to be a universally consistent trait of his. Even the kid versions were getting along, and so far as Jim knew Mini-Spock was socially awkward and Mini-Jim was a pain in the ass. Although he was starting to think that maybe neither of them had been as bad as they believed.

Evil-Jim gave him a look. Then he seemed to decide that it wasn't really consequential. He shrugged dismissively and pulled himself back up out of the little opening. Jim followed not long after, feeling substantially better as he did. There was something to be said for shade and water. He moved towards the opening of their little discovery, passing the kids as he did. They were sitting together again, and he thought he heard Mini-Jim say very quietly 'yeah, I kinda want my mom too', but when he glanced over they were both silent.

He squinted out into the glare of the bright daylight, the heat hitting his face as he left the cover of the rock formation, and after a minute cast his gaze skyward. If it were night he could try and see if any of the constellations were even remotely familiar, but even that would be a long shot given all the possibilities out there. There were a few planets he already knew of that were viable contenders for where they could be. The moon not far from the yellow sun overhead nixed one of them. The fact that there was just the single sun nixed another. It _could_ be Vulcan II, although if it was then it was part of the colony planet he'd never been to, since the texture and colour of the earth was completely different. Still, it looked to be an entire world, and if it were populated then someone would find them sooner or later. Particularly if they kept broadcasting signals.

How they'd gotten there from the edge of Tholian space was still up for anyone to guess.

After a few minutes of examining the skyline and divining no new insights to their location, he turned and headed back underneath the cover of the cave. It would be easy if he could just continue searching and then come back again later. But he didn't trust Evil-Jim alone with a couple of kids, even though his other self had proven to be somewhat less rampantly homicidal than he'd feared up to this point. The man was diligently dissecting his communicator, and Jim had a guess as to what he'd do to it, although how he'd amplify the signal without any additional components was a bit of a mystery.

That mystery was solved when Evil-Jim pulled the knife from his boot and with careless ease, before Jim could even be alarmed at the weapon's return, sliced open the flesh at the base of his wrist. Jim's eyes widened in surprise as he used the tip to flick a small microchip out from under his skin, not even wincing at his self-mutilation, and then proceeded to suck the blood off of it. He glanced over.

"Imperial tracking device," he explained, mockingly. "There's another one at the base of my skull that I'm not supposed to know about. If I trusted you with a knife at my neck, I might get you to take it out for me. But I don't."

Jim could only blink at that for a second and watch him carefully dissect the tiny chip for parts. He glanced back over towards the kids, but the two of them weren't paying attention. They seemed to be more interested in each other than anything else at the moment. Mini-Jim had extended his index finger and was drawing shapes along the dusty ground, much to Spock's avid fascination and occasional contribution. It looked as though they had settled on letting the taller people handle things for now.

A shifting in the shadows at the cave entrance caught Jim's eye, and with another glance at his current 'group' and their distracted attentions, he moved over towards it and glanced out.

The colour of the sky was changing.

He stared incredulously up at it, because the sun's position was cresting very _slowly_ towards midday, not evening or early morning, and so the alteration was definitely unexpected. Along the horizon streams of pink were bleeding into the cloudless blue atmosphere, but for no apparent reason.

Some kind of planetary trait, then. Jim tried to think of worlds with odd, colour-changing atmospheres, and came up blank. There were a couple of possibilities, yet neither one fit well enough – Midgar VII was known to go through Aurora Borealis-type displays for half the year, but it was a small, densely populated world which wouldn't have this broad expanse of desert terrain. It was also home to several orbiting space stations that would have been visible, even in broad daylight. The only other planet he could think of with similarly colourful displays was comprised almost entirely of water.

The sky shimmered.

Jim blinked, frowned, and then folded his arms. He leaned against the nearest out-cropping and waited to see if he'd imagined that.

After a minute, the sky shimmered _again_, a silvery stream sparking away from the sun.

"Fuck," he said emphatically, because in his experience colourful light displays in space usually meant that some nasty shit was about to happen to something. It was the stuff of artists' dreams and Starfleet captains' nightmares. As if on cue, then, the ground beneath his feet began to shudder. It wasn't like the standard tremors of seismic activity, either. It was a jarring, bone-rattling, teeth-clattering shake, as if someone had put the planet into a martini mixer. The strangest part was that nothing actually seemed to be _moving_. The little stray stones by his feet remained stationary, the brittle plants along the rocks and boulders didn't quiver, the only thing that seemed to be affected was him.

The air around him became strangely tight and asphyxiating, heavy and nearly impossible to draw in no matter how deeply he gasped. Jim pressed a hand against his throat and swallowed hard as stars blurred in his vision. Damn. Maybe there'd been something wrong with the water after all?

And then, like someone letting all of the air out of a balloon, the sensation passed and the world seemed to somehow _sigh_. Jim inhaled deeply against it. It was the only thing he had time to do before shock stole his breath again as everything around him was suddenly painted by a green brush, so to speak, and in the blink of an eye the barren desert of rocks and dry earth was replaced by a broad expanse of tall, sweet-smelling pines and thickly forested undergrowth. It rolled out as the world shimmered along its outlines, and when it had passed and his bones had stopped shaking, all he could do was just stare around at the changes for several long, utterly baffled minutes.

Holy. Shit.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, just to make sure he wasn't, you know, hallucinating or anything.

Then he realized that the cave and its occupants were gone, and he swore, turning around and looking past the trees and fallen, moss-covered logs that seemed like they'd been there for decades instead of seconds as he tried to see if they'd popped up somewhere else. But they hadn't.

"Spock?" he called. "Kid? Evil-Me?"

Nothing answered him except the distant sound of bird calls. There was a flutter of movement over his head, but when he looked up, he couldn't actually see the animal that caused it.

The effect was kind of eerie.

Jim decided to add 'semi-omnipotent being is fucking with us again' to the list of possible explanations for what was going on. He took stock of himself, noting that he still had everything he'd had a few seconds ago and cursing the fact that Evil-Jim had disappeared with his communicator to god-knows-where.

It took him a moment to notice the leafy fern jabbing into his side. Probably because, as of a short while ago, it hadn't existed. He moved away from the frond and through the awkward, rough underbrush, occasionally calling out just on the off-chance there was someone around to hear him.

The reflection of something manmade, shining briefly in a streak of sunlight that penetrated the canopy of trees, caught his attention. He paused and then turned towards it, noting a dull, rounded shape from the midst of several trees. His throat closed off with an uncomfortable feeling of unease, slightly cold tendrils running down his spine as he made his way closer, crushing branches underfoot and recognizing the object. It looked a lot like the coffins most space-faring vessels were equipped with for 'burials'. For those people who wanted to be jettisoned out into the cold vacuum of space when they died.

This was some seriously messed up shit. He found himself simultaneously compelled to investigate further and repulsed by the fact that it was a _coffin_. For several minutes he deliberated under the thick overhang of a tree, breathing in the now-moist air and the scent of needles and moss.

Curiosity and practicality won out. Whoever they were might have been sent off with something, and as rude as it was, if they had anything useful on them then Jim needed it more than they did. He strode forward, running his hands carefully along the sides to find the seals that had closed it shut, and unlocked them. There was a soft whine and click as the top of the coffin was released.

Pushing back his unease Jim carefully rested his hands against it, and then shoved.

There was a shout. The sound of familiar, and yet different voices filling the air, and he whipped his head up as he heard Bones and Scotty, and… himself? The words were indistinct, but the tone was there – his own voice edged with desperation, Bones' familiar, grim words of reason and Scotty's oddly defeated timbre. It was on the tip of his tongue to call back to the unexpected noise, to wonder where it was coming from, but instead all he could feel was a deep, dark dread, as if someone had pulled the entire universe out from underneath him.

He looked back towards the coffin.

Empty.

It was smooth and black and utterly unoccupied, and he rested on hand against the side of it. As his fingers relaxed against the dark surface, however, a spark seemed to ignite from the touch. It felt like fire, and it carried with it that awful, strangled sensation of heavy air and the world closing in on him. He dropped to his knees this time, and for an instant almost thought he heard another voice. The old man's voice, as if it were right by his ear, although he couldn't tell what it was saying. Black spots filled his vision, swallowed up by the black coffin.

The world sighed once more.

Jim gulped in great, heaving breaths when he found himself able to again, and realized that he must have fallen over at some point. He was looking dazedly up into a pair of inscrutable dark eyes.

They would have been more relieving to see if there wasn't a beard beneath them. But it was still a good thing. Probably.

"He is alive," Beardy-Spock said, and there was a slight shifting of dirt, and then he noted that Evil-Jim was looking down at him as well. And that he was back outside of the cave.

"Hey," he said, and added 'this is all some very crazy dream' to the ever-growing list of possibilities. "Where'd you come from?" Gingerly, he sat up, and realized that the evil-er version of his first officer had actually taken the time to kneel next to him to ascertain his status.

"The locator in my wrist was activated by the captain's modified communicator," he explained. "I was able to surmise that you were in the vicinity, and uncovered your location. You had fainted."

Jim glared at him, not missing the derogatory note in his statement. "I didn't _faint_," he protested.

"He's right," Evil-Jim supported. "I saw him vanish into the ether. I thought he'd gone for good until he re-appeared."

Beardy-Spock raised an eyebrow at him. "Fascinating," he declared.

On that wholly unprecedented note, Jim glanced around, wondering where the kids had gotten to and hoping no one's tongue had been cut out while he was… standing next to an empty coffin in a forest. Weird. After a second he spied them inside of the cave, warily observing the proceedings and seemingly unharmed. When he looked at them Mini-Spock seemed to relax marginally, and Mini-Jim made a dramatic show of wiping his forehead.

Clearly, they'd prefer it if he didn't leave them alone with their more sinister selves in the future.

"Well?" Evil-Jim asked him, impatiently grasping his arm in one hand and yanking him to his feet. "What happened?"

Looking down, Jim noted that he'd been divested of his phaser while he was indisposed.

Great.

Evil-Jim smirked at him, because now they both knew he was out-armed _and_ out-numbered. Unless the kids counted. Which they didn't.

"I _think_ I was on another planet," Jim said. "Or maybe a different part of this planet. It was a forest." He glanced upwards, noting the hot but otherwise normal blue sky overhead. "The sky changed colour, and there was some kind of stellar anomaly. Like a ribbon overhead," he explained, and then went on to more or less describe what had gone on. He couldn't see the harm in it, since he was _fairly_ certain that they were all still working towards the same goal. So even if he might be inclined towards it, his other self didn't have a reason to turn on him.

His explanation then led to Beardy-Spock asking him how he'd come to be there in the first place, as the pirate-y version of his first officer had more or less just woken up on the rock after vanishing from the bridge. So Jim explained that, too, causing the half-Vulcan's eyes to narrow in consideration.

Evil-Jim glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"What are you thinking, Spock?" he asked, his tone coloured with a mixture of expectancy and suspicion.

"As I have told you many times before, Captain, my thoughts are not freely shared," Beardy-Spock tossed back, causing the man to sneer at him. He raised an eyebrow. "Do not succumb to your human fears. I will find a solution to our dilemma, as I always do."

There was just a hint of patronization to his tone, and there was a _ton_ of it in his word-choice.

Jim wondered if it was possible to cut the sexual tension between himself and his Spock with a knife, too, when they were trading heated glances like that. Although theirs were generally less… homicidal.

"Watch yourself, Spock," Evil-Jim warned. "You're no more armed than the children, and my patience runs roughly the same for your annoying habits."

Beardy-Spock replied with a skeptical look. "I see that you are still of the erroneous opinion that your ability to draw a weapon is in any way faster than my ability to break your neck," he noted.

Jim glanced between them, and then over at the kids.

"Where the fuck is _my_ Spock?" he demanded unhappily.

The pirate-universe pair looked towards him at that.

"Presumably he is in the vicinity," Beardy-Spock reasoned. "The variables of our situation remain largely unknown. It would be advisable to locate him, given that he is possibly a component to the resolution of this predicament."

Somehow he managed to make 'predicament' sound like the most offensive word ever conceived by mankind. But Jim was totally onboard with the 'locate him' part of that, since it was pretty much the whole point of his being there in the first place.

"It would be quicker if we split up," he reasoned. "The kids can stay here, and we could return after a while to check in with each other again." Assuming, of course, that nobody tried to kill anybody. He was guessing though that the unknown variables of their situation were acting as the largest deterrent to that. Nobody knew what the consequences of one of them dying could be. Their very presence there was hinged on mystery.

Evil-Jim gave a derisive snort. "I say we wait here," he countered. "So far two out of three have just found us. Our luck will hold."

"Illogical," Beardy-Spock countered. "Not that I would expect you to display substantially different reasoning, but given that the first instance was luck and the second was successful communication, indulging in such assumptions would be folly."

"Watch your tone, Spock," Evil-Jim replied, glaring at his first officer. "Your Vulcan roots are showing again."

To Jim's surprise, this actually seemed to quiet Beardy-Spock down for a moment. If someone had said something like that to his _own_ Spock, he probably would have thanked them. Patronizingly.

It made him wonder about what kind of political and cultural differences existed in this other universe. But he didn't devote a lot of his curiosity to it, even though he _was_ curious. There were more important things to focus on, after all.

Evil-Jim and Beardy-Spock stared off for a moment. Then, after several uncomfortable seconds had ticked by and Jim had folded his arms and noticed that the kids were whispering quietly to each other, Evil-Jim let out a small huff of breath, and waved a hand dismissively.

"Fine," he said. "We'll look for him. But not you," he added, turning his gaze towards Jim, and he noticed for a surreal moment the odd intelligence behind a face so like his own.

He stiffened, frowning. "Why not me?" he demanded.

"Most likely because you are liable to faint or disappear at an inopportune moment," Beardy-Spock replied for his captain, tilting his head slightly. "Although we have no reason to believe that the phenomenon is actually limited to you simply because you have been the only one affected thus far."

"Of course we do," Evil-Jim countered. "_He's_ the one who flew into the anomaly."

Jim's frown deepened. "I'm not sitting around here while you two look for Spock. I mean Spock-Spock. My Spock. I need to find him."

"Touching," Evil-Jim mocked. "I can see you have the self-preservation instincts of a candid journalist."

Beardy-Spock looked vaguely amused.

His other self kept going. "I'm going to speak slowly for your benefit, because apparently the key difference between our two universes is that everyone in yours is substantially less intelligent. You're not going to damn us all by running along a Cliffside and potentially falling unconscious and dropping off of it, because we don't know if that will rip apart this wretchedly unstable game we've been caught in, and frankly I don't care how attached you are to your Spock. No. You're staying here, and the only choice you have is whether you stay here because you've suddenly decided to be a sensible man, or whether you stay here because Mr. Spock has rendered you unconscious."

Jim took a wary step back, and Evil-Jim tapped his chin.

"In fact, knowing you – as I certainly do in many ways, I'm sure – I don't think you should even be afforded that choice. Take him down, Spock," he said, and his last sentence was spoken with the undeniable authority of a direct order.

Jim ducked the first grasp Beardy-Spock made for him, moving low and darting to one side. He managed to hook a leg behind his and _almost_ tripped him, but his balance was a little better than he gave it credit for, and then a sharp blow came down across the back of his shoulders and sent him unavoidably to the dirt. Before he could rise several iron-strong fingers closed around his neck and shoulder, and his last thought as he lost himself to the familiar dark spots of unconsciousness was that it kind of sucked that Spock could beat him in a fight.

---

There was the black of unconsciousness. The black of a smooth ship's coffin. The black of Spock's hair. The black of space, broken only by the distant pinpricks of all that lay within its vast reaches. Jim opened his eyes to glittering darkness.

A dream? He'd dreamed of floating in space before. It was like dreaming of flying, of passing on his own power through the window of his cabin.

But this wasn't space. He stared out at it, weightless and adrift, taking in the distant spots of light and being reminded with chilling clarity of the Narada. He was inside some kind of machine, then. A big, dark, glittering machine, stretching around him like a city at night. Jim turned his head, trying to take in more of the disconcerting scene around him, and as he moved became aware of the confines of an environmental suit around him.

There was also another figure. Clad also in a suit, and drifting not far from where he was, facing away from him. Again, the cold tendrils of dread traced down his spine. He tried to manipulate the suit's systems, to propel himself towards the figure. After a few minutes he succeeded. It was a little awkward, though – the design was different from what he was familiar with.

Slowly, he passed through the weightless world around him, moving with the forced awkwardness that always came in navigating such space. As he did he became increasingly aware of the odd, oppressive hum that filled the air around him. Like the strange heartbeat of some vast, mechanical beast. It pulled and itched against the back of his mind, cold and far from pleasant. With every second that passed it became increasingly oppressive. Bleak.

He started to hold his breath until he came up level with the other figure. One suited arm moved back towards him, clasping against his own as he neared, but the helmet remained facing away from him.

"Spock?" he asked, returning that grasp and taking the figure's shoulders in hand. He moved so that they were facing one another…

…and was greeted by nothing.

An empty suit.

The hand clasped to his arm was now just an equally empty glove, but he _knew_ it hadn't been before. He clutched at material which bent and folded beneath his grasp, and alone in this strange machine, began to sink into the cold.

It was almost a relief when he felt the breath being crushed from the suit around him, felt the universe stop, and then relax. Exhale. The shadows and the glitter of distant, alien mechanical lights melted away into the yellow glow of sunlight as it soaked into the rocks around him. With a frustrated groan, Jim pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, and waited for his disorientation to pass.

"He's back," he heard his own younger voice say, before a small hand clasped his shoulder and shook.

"Captain Kirk," Mini-Spock said from the opposite side of him. "Are you fully cognitive?"

He blinked his way back to full awareness. Two inquisitive faces looked down at him, one blatantly relieved and the other still slightly concerned. Apparently Spock had _always_ been a worrier.

"What is the square root of pi?" the small half-Vulcan asked.

Jim grinned at him as he sat up. "One point seven, seven, two-five," he answered easily. "But I've got that one memorized. Next time just try a more random math question."

Mini-Spock tilted his head a little. "That is not precise," he said. "The square root of pi is more accurately one point seven, seven, two, four, five, three, eight, five, zero, nine, zero, five, five, one, six, zero, two, seven, two, nine, eight, one, six, seven, four, eight, three, three, one, four," he supplied very matter-of-factly.

Mini-Jim looked at him appraisingly, and then let out a long whistle. "Did they cart you off to some genius school or something?" he asked.

Spock looked at him, eyes widening a little, and the tips of his ears darkening just a bit. "No," he said. "Most educational facilities operate under the assumption that my human genetics will hinder my mental processing skills. I attend a standard level institute."

Huh. Spock went to Vulcan public school? That probably made it even more impressive that he'd gotten approval to join the Academy of Science, then.

Mini-Jim snorted. "They sound like jerks," he said. "It's better that you don't go to their stupid schools anyway. All they do is try and turn you into a robot."

"I was not aware that was even physically possible. How would they transfer consciousness to a non-organic form?"

Before his younger self could come up with a creative explanation for that, Jim decided to intervene. "It's a figure of speech," he supplied helpfully, picking himself up off the ground and dusting off his clothes. At some point he'd been dragged back inside the opening of the cave. Evil-Jim and Beardy-Spock looked to be gone. The sun had slung itself lower, past the midday mark, but how much physical time had actually passed was up for debate, since he had no idea how long this planet… place… world's days were to begin with.

The kids went quiet as he lay a hand against the rock opening and leaned his head out, careful not to crack his skull.

"So. Where'd you go?" Mini-Jim asked him after a minute.

"…Nowhere pleasant," Jim answered before he turned back around, and concluded that, no, he wasn't going to just stay here, thanks. He was going to go look for Spock.

Two pairs of eyes were watching him carefully. Mini-Jim smirked. "Try not to fall off of a cliff," he advised, before sprawling down beside the rock wall, using his jacket to cushion his seat. Mini-Spock glanced between them.

"It would be inadvisable for you to leave," he said. "There is the possibility that unfriendly wildlife exists in this region. You would be acting irresponsibly to subject both yourself and us to the possibility of unguarded attack from such a front."

Or, in other words, 'don't go, what if a mountain lion comes to eat us?'.

"I don't think there are any animals around here," Jim said reasonably. "There are no signs of them. Some planets don't have creatures that big."

"Don't worry," Mini-Jim declared, giving Spock's leg beside him a reassuring pat. "I take judo classes after school. I'm pretty sure I could beat up a bear or something," he said with absolute bravado. Spock gave him a disbelieving look.

"I am almost positive that you could not," he replied honestly.

Mini-Jim sighed. "That's just because you haven't seen me do it yet," he reasoned.

"I have no desire to witness your mauling. In the event of an animal attack, retreat would be the more advisable course of action," Mini-Spock insisted, looking genuinely concerned that his new friend might try and fight some kind of large predatory mammal.

"But I could totally pull it off!"

Jim shook his head at the two of them. "Nobody's fighting any animals because there _aren't_ any animals," he said, folding his arms across his chest and musing that it was still a pain in the ass to try and be an authority figure. And nine times freakier when he was doing it to a couple of kids, and not his crew. "I'm going to go look for Spock. You guys stay here."

He ran a hand across his waist for a moment, conscious of his missing phaser and communicator. Damn Evil-Jim. He'd have to find a way to steal his weapon back.

"See if you can find food, too," Mini-Jim requested, not the least bit surprised by his older self's actions. Not that he should be.

Jim nodded. His own hunger had been put off by a mixture of adrenaline, fear, and the nausea caused by… whatever it was that occasionally sucked him up and spat him out. "I'll see what I can do," he promised, and then set off into the changed shadows of the afternoon light. He had no idea what direction Beardy-Spock or Evil-Jim had gone in, which was kind of a hindrance, but he decided to climb up one of the more difficult-looking routes, figuring that they might have avoided it. The terrain was steep and rough, winding slowly up the Cliffside over the cave. But, since it took him _higher_, it might afford him a better view of their surroundings.

It did occur to him that he was putting himself in exactly the kind of situation he'd been warned against. In deference to the fact that he didn't _really_ want to splatter himself all over a bunch of rocks he kept as far from any awkward drops as he could, and made sure to glance up at the sky with a fair amount of frequency.

Not that it made things easy going. It didn't take him long to work up a sweat, pulling himself over awkward patches of terrain and more than a few times having to back-track as he came to dead ends or completely impassable areas. His hands and feet suffered against the unyielding rocks, and after he tore open the skin of his palms for the second time on a jagged corner, he stripped off his black second shirt, ripped it in half, and used it as a barrier between his hands and the rocks where he could. For a long while he continued on in this fashion, moving upwards and outwards from the cave and the kids. Where he could he took a moment to scan the area, searching for flashes of blue or black, or any signs of his other self.

Nothing crossed his eye, but there was still a lot of ground left invisible to him.

He was on a ledge when it happened. The sun had sunk lower, so the pink colour rising from the edge of the sky didn't seem so out of place. Jim stopped anyway. He moved closer to the nearest outcropping, further from where he could fall and injure himself, and for several moments simply waited.

And waited.

Just when he was going to give it up as something unrelated to what had happened to him, though, a coiling ribbon of silvery light streaked across the sky, and the world began to shake.

Ready for it this time, Jim crouched low, gritting his teeth against the unpleasant sensation and holding his breath. The air crushed in around him. Spots danced across his vision as the terrain flashed and flickered, and the dusty, pale earth around him was reshaped into an unyielding expanse of red-brown desert, hotter than before. He gasped in a breath that burned within his chest and set fire to his lungs, dropping one hand against the ground to try and regain his balance.

This time, though, when he looked up, he thought he knew where he was.

He shuddered, a feeling like having stepped on someone's grave running through him as he looked around at the sculpted mountains and the bright, cloudless sky. A harsh glow dusted this world which, previously, he had only seen before from pictures and the dizzying altitude of a giant mining rig. It couldn't be Vulcan. And yet, it looked very much like it, and with all the unknown variables of the situation, he had no idea what was possible.

A large, cultivated rock jutted out of the mountains alongside him, its top flattened and only somewhat blocked by weathered-looking walls. A ring. An arena. Several rock bridges led towards it, one beginning not far from where he'd more or less appeared. Distant figures moved across the area, betraying its purpose as they clashed with large, unfamiliar weapons. One a flash of blue, the other gold. There was a sense of urgency in the air.

Jim moved towards them. His mouth was dry, and even though he should have been able to make out more details as he drew closer, the figures remained indistinct. Hazy. As if he was seeing them through an intense wave of heat and disorientation, the world thrown off-balance, like a drugged hallucination. The closer he came the warmer he felt, too, until it was as if his blood had been lit on fire, and he had to stop himself from staggering backwards and fleeing the ring and its combatants.

It took a small eternity to cross the bridge. By the time he had, the combatant dressed in blue had wrapped something around his opponent's neck, and was steadily choking the life from him.

Jim couldn't help feeling somewhat sympathetic.

His feet crossed the circle of the ring, passing the stone walls and shifting the fine, somewhat glittering grains of sand beneath his feet. It was strange how clear those details could seem when the people were still little more than vague outlines of colour and shape. He stumbled, hit by another wave of heat and then intense, deep-burning anguish. It bit into him with all the ferocity of a physical beast, hard and harsh as indistinct words were spoken by a familiar voice – that sounded like Bones! – and a rock of solid cold sank into his chest and drained all of the fire from him, dragging him down, down into the impossible depths of despair.

_No…_

It was terrible. As if Spock had died, and suddenly he found himself faced with the grim knowledge that he would never see him again, never speak to him again, never feel his hand against his shoulder or see his contemplative look across a chessboard… never touch, never taste, never know… never love…

He looked up again, but the figures had vanished. He was alone in the circle.

"Jim!"

His eyes widened. Spock! That was Spock's voice! His head whipped around to where the other stone bridge connected to the arena, and there he was, as clear and real as the sand beneath his feet, looking like he'd just run across the entire way across.

"Spock!" he called back. But to his astonishment, his first officer wasn't even looking towards him. His gaze was focused, instead, on the center of the ring, where the fighters had been standing. After a second he moved again, and Jim rose unsteadily to his feet.

"No!" the half-Vulcan exclaimed, his motions swift and violent as he swung towards something unseen. "Stop this! _Kroykah!_ _**Enough!**_"

Jim lunged forward, his disorientation fading in the clarity of finally locating his first officer, and wrapped his arms around his waist as he slashed the empty air with determined strikes, as if trying to fight an invisible, unmoving opponent.

"Do not kill him!"

"_Spock!_"

His mouth was right beside his ear, the back muscles against his chest tense, a sharp elbow accidentally clipping his side. "There's nothing there!" he insisted urgently.

To his immense relief, Spock actually seemed to stop and notice that he existed. Somewhat. There was an odd, distant look to his eyes, and Jim was certain that he was seeing something more than Jim himself was. That he couldn't quite make him out, with the way his gaze seemed to slide around him, narrowing as one hand closed against the arm around his midsection. Warm fingers flexed curiously against him.

"Jim?"

The air around him began to stifle, to crush him, and he cursed its timing as he held on tightly, willing his first officer to not fade out of his grip again. For an instant, then, as his lungs were robbed of their breath, Spock's gaze cleared, and he turned. Looking right at him, closing his hands onto his shoulders.

Then the world fell away, and the warm weight of touch against him was gone. He could breathe again.

He was alone on the cliff again.

Just to be certain he rose to his feet, but the world around him was still and stark and quiet. Spock was gone.

"_Dammit!"_ he swore, clenching his fists and swiping one of his boots against the ground in frustration, kicking up a small cloud of dirt. His exclamation seemed to hang hollowly around himself. Just what _was_ this? What was happening? What did he keep _seeing?_

Where was Spock? Was he going through the same thing as Jim, vanishing and reappearing in these strange places?

His thoughts were distracted by a resounding _boom_ which suddenly echoed through the air. Reflexively he moved back, plastering himself against unyielding rock and looking upward, where the sound had come like a clap of thunder. Streamers of light, silver, gold, pink, blue, purple, and white all suddenly streaked across the sky like the rainbow in an oil slick.

Jim braced himself, because if _one_ weird sky anomaly meant he got sucked into some crazy other place, then he didn't even want to bet on what that many would do.

A minute ticked by. Then another. The ground didn't shake, the air didn't stifle, in fact nothing much happened apart from the continuing light-show overhead. Eventually he moved away from the discomfort of the rocks against his back, and watched the display. If he didn't know any better he'd say it was just some kind of atmospheric anomaly. Pretty lights. Maybe a seasonal thing for this world.

But he knew better. So instead all his mind could conjure up was a resounding 'what the fuck?'

"Fascinating."

Jim got excited for all of a few seconds before he turned around and realized it was Beardy-Spock who had spoken up. The half-Vulcan was gazing up at the sky, although his eyes darted briefly in Jim's direction after a moment.

"You should not have regained consciousness so swiftly," he noted, the statement clearly intended to be a question.

He guessed it probably had something to do with his disappearing act waking him up early from the neck-pinch. But rather than admit that, he smirked, and shrugged.

"I'm just full of surprises," he replied instead.

Beardy-Spock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Indeed," he said, sounding singularly unimpressed, as if being full of surprises was kind of like being full of shit. Then he went back to staring skyward. "That is distinctly concerning with regards to this location's stability."

Jim was inclined to agree. So he did.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Beardy-Spock closed an iron grip around his forearm. Only because this Spock had made it a point not to touch him, apart from that one near-strangling that never really went anywhere.

"We will return to our agreed upon base," he said in a tone which implied that he expected Jim to argue, and that such arguing would get his shoulder dislocated. And then wouldn't that be unfortunate?

"You know, I think you find it kind of cathartic to order me around," Jim noted, trying to ignore the headache that was building up between his temples.

"There is nothing about your presence which would qualify as positive stimulus," Beardy-Spock shot back without missing a beat, his grip uncomfortable and awkward as he essentially yanked Jim along beside him.

It didn't take him long to get fed up with that treatment. "Okay, okay, fine," he said. "Let go of my arm. I'll behave myself."

Beardy-Spock glanced at him, and then after a second, with clear reluctance, released his grasp.

Interesting fact – despite possessing greater physical strength than humans, Vulcans were pretty shitty at running. You'd think with their strong musculature that they'd be good at it, but something about their legs and strides were built differently, and they were actually no better than most humans at it. And, in fact, nowhere near as good as particularly fit and physically adept members of the species.

Like Jim.

So he could have run off, and he would have if he'd felt inclined to be contrary – which he did. Except that it was _probably_ a good idea to go and check on their other selves. So instead he settled for pointing out that Beardy-Spock was an asshole and walking alongside him, shelving the whole 'running' idea in case he needed it later.

Beardy-Spock informed him that insolence was a good way to get killed.

Jim reminded him that concern for his well-being was the whole reason he was getting dragged along in the first place.

Beardy-Spock made certain to clarify that he was in absolutely no way concerned for Jim's well-being out of any attachment to Jim himself, and that once he was certain killing him wouldn't adversely affect their situation, Jim could expect to be killed.

It was a cheerfully tense conversation to pass the time with as they both wondered if the sky was going to doing anything else spectacularly weird or perhaps deadly while they were under it.

By the time they got back to the cave the light show hadn't let up – if anything, it had gotten worse – and Evil-Jim had returned as well. He was in the process of glowering at the kids, who had moved further back, with Mini-Jim folding his arms and Mini-Spock looking tense. Beardy-Spock gave the area a cursory glance.

"I take it you were unable to locate him?" he surmised.

Evil-Jim shrugged. "If I didn't know that we supposedly come in matching pairs, I wouldn't have guessed that there was another soul on this rock," he replied with callous ease, shooting a glare at the sky. "So. You're the genius, Mr. Spock. Care to start sharing some theories about what's going on, or are you going to leave me to make my own?"

Beardy-Spock seemed to consider that for a moment.

"I am unclear as to my own connection to this anomaly," he said. "However, it seems obvious that we are somehow locked in a segment of interphase space. That segment must also be attached to this… place." It was obvious that his own lack of details was annoying to him, in that subtle, Spock way. "However, from what is known of interphase anomalies, we should not still be alive or sane after this length of time. It appears to be some sort of similar, yet previously unknown, phenomenon."

Mini-Jim made a little, sarcastic victory gesture with his hand. "Hooray for the mysteries of space," he said unhappily.

"Any thoughts on how we can get _out _of it?" Jim asked.

Thick silence answered that question.

Meanwhile, his own mind was working on the problem – particularly since he had information that the others didn't. Like the fact that there had been a temporal anomaly in somewhat circuitous connection with this section of interphase space that had _prominently_ featured a Spock. Which made him momentarily glad, not for the first time, that Nero was very dead and blown up and sucked into a black hole, because otherwise they might have been pulling different versions of _him_ out of the transporter. And quite frankly, if Jim hadn't shot them, Spock would have.

So. Somehow this weird thing had developed an attachment to Spock, presumably due to the fact that the old man had broken through it when Goodbye-Romulus had happened in his future. And then Jim had flown into it, which explained the attachment to Jim. Kind of. He didn't have a better explanation for that, to be honest, so it was what he'd go with. That was all stuff he'd more or less guessed at already, though. It was his own situation right now which was giving him pause. Maybe it was because _he_ was the one who'd actually flown into the anomaly, but the places he went to… that last one had been Vulcan.

Vulcan, with two figures fighting. One in blue and one in gold. And then his Spock had shown up – was he experiencing the same thing? Was that why he was so difficult to find, because he kept vanishing?

The sky cracked again, and all of them – even the Spocks – instinctively ducked away from the loud boom of noise.

This time, the tremors started shortly afterwards again. It was an even more surreal experience to undergo when he was surrounded by people, their bodies still and unmoving as his own was shaken.

"Crap," he heard Mini-Jim say, and then the kid rushed forward and closed a hand around his wrist. Still and solid against his own shaking. He didn't even try to breathe, couldn't consider if this was a good thing or a bad thing since he might run into Spock again. It was definitely an _unpleasant_ thing. He looked down into his own younger face for an instant. Long enough to see it vanish, feel the touch fade away from him as the world sparked and changed its face.

It took him a minute to figure out why this place looked so familiar to him.

There were trees, and rocks, neither the barren desert of Vulcan nor the lush terrain of the first place he'd visited. The weather above stormed, but it was a normal thunderstorm – the kind he'd experienced on Earth. Wind whipped through the trees and blessedly moist air filled his lungs as he greedily sucked in his breaths and took in the familiar structure of an outpost facility.

It wasn't covered in snow. But it was identical to the one on Delta Vega – the planet's southern facility? He stared at the structure, slightly worn and silent before him.

Shelter from the storm at least. Rain was beginning to whip around his head.

"Spock?" he called, keeping an eye out as a gust of wind swept around him. It was still a lot better than the last time he'd been here. Nothing was chasing him, anyway, and even if it was pretty cold, it wasn't 'danger of frostbite' cold.

The facility doors didn't open automatically. He had to wrench the handles to get them to move, and once he was inside it closed them a solid, hollow _thunk_ behind him. Lights activated automatically. The place smelled of disuse and only the customary maintenance, and there was a coating of dust on a lot of the systems which didn't have automatic cleaners.

His footsteps echoed.

He called for Spock again, and added his voice to the sound of his movements. The outpost looked like it was used largely for monitoring and some storage, probably from back when it was in active operation at cracking lithium. There were several secure storing cells to deter thieves. Most of them were empty and deactivated to conserve energy. One, however, was turned on – but didn't have anything inside of it.

There was an eerie, haunted quality in that. Jim walked over, because really, where else was he going to head? And everything in these places seemed to direct him towards certain things. Really freaky-ass things. The forcefield hummed rhythmically in front of him as he stared into the secure cell. It looked like had been hastily converted into a temporary prison of sorts. An unoccupied prison.

The quiet which had settled around him was still and uneasy.

It was broken with a sudden, violent burst from the forcefield, as if something had struck against it from the inside. Jim jerked back and away as his line of sight was momentarily assaulted by a vague outline, a distorted figure throwing itself towards him, its face sketchy but for the distinct impression of uncanny silver eyes.

"Holy _shit!_" he exclaimed with feeling, and again he heard familiar voices – himself, and Spock – but couldn't find their source. Ghost-like shapes shimmered _around_ him for an instant, beyond the cell even as the forcefield continued to spit and hiss violently. He stared at them, backing away even more, and for one instant passed into the line of one's sight.

Spock.

It was Spock – or _a_ Spock, anyway. A ghostly, faint outline that was indistinct but for the vaguest shapes, and he could have been wrong. But he didn't think he was.

_Jim?_

A phantom hand reached out for him, coinciding with another violent outburst from the forcefield. Fingers closed around his forearm.

He felt them as solidly as if they were real.

Then slowly, very slowly, the visible factor came into play as well. Details – the texture of skin, the shape of eyes, hair, mouth, the fabric of clothing – all seeped into his awareness as if his eyes had been suffering from some bizarrely person-specific damage that was only now being healed.

"Spock," he said, momentarily overwhelmed with relief until he realized that this wasn't his Spock. It was close, but this Spock was a little too old, and just… different. The odd uniform was probably a large part of that. He was clearly armed, and around them other figures took shape – a man behind the forcefield, with strange, silvery eyes. Another version of himself, physically a little closer to Evil-Jim in age and build, trying to talk the other man out of injuring himself. A blonde woman, and a security officer he didn't recognize.

None of them seemed to take any notice of him. No one except Spock, who was looking at him with his brows furrowed, his expression tight.

"I am not… here?" Spock asked him, seemingly at random.

"I don't know where we are," Jim admitted.

"This is not real," this new version of his first officer suddenly decided, his tone resolute. "I believe I have miscalculated. It is imperative that you do not remain, Jim, or it will remember-"

Spock was cut off, then, and for an instant Jim wasn't standing in some far-removed outpost on Delta Vega. He was in something else, something dark and shadowy and indistinct, and the Spock who was holding onto him wasn't dressed in a strange uniform and wearing a relatively young face.

He was old, tired, and familiar, clad in Vulcan robes and suddenly heavy with the weight of years.

For an instant.

Then he was gone.

Jim expected that he would return to that strange planet, to where the younger versions of himself and Spock and the evil-er versions were. So when he sank away, it surprised him. But then the surprise faded from his mind, and he wondered why he would feel it as thoughts of deserts and alternate selves drifted away, lulled by a fuzzy, indistinct sense of time and the universe, and who he was.

Who was he?

_Kirk_.

Oh, yes, Kirk. He was James Tiberius Kirk. Jim. Jim, who was retired, who lived a quiet life in a quiet cabin, free from the stresses and demands of Starfleet. He had his troubles behind him and his comforts ahead. He was busy – he liked to keep busy, horse-back riding, looking after the cabin, spending time with his wife.

_Wife?_

Yes, of course. His wife. Antonia – he'd always liked that name. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. She was the light of his life, bright and graceful, smart enough to keep up with his conversations and always laugh at his jokes.

He felt a jarring, lurching sensation, like he'd missed a step inside of himself.

_Jim, do not allow it to-_

The voice called to him before it was cut off, and for a moment he was distinctly, deeply alarmed. Until he forgot it again. There was no voice to hear, because he was alone in the woods. Chopping wood.

The axe felt heavy in his hands as he swung it downwards, meeting the block with a satisfying _clunk_ and splitting it cleanly down the center. With a grin he picked up another block and split it, too, clearing the halves away into the woodpile and enjoying the feel of his muscles straining with each blow. He was in good shape for his age. At this rate he might just re-enlist, shock the hell out of command and start over again at Ensign, just for kicks. He'd like to see the look on the face of any 'superior' officer who was supposed to order him around…

…Except, of course, that he'd had his fill of Starfleet and space travel. Now he was happily retired, and fully intended to enjoy every minute of it.

By chopping wood.

Living the simple life, just like when he was a kid and his father took him camping.

_Wait, what?_

Jim paused by the wood block, frowning and raising a hand to his head as his thoughts spun for a moment. Disoriented.

"Jim!" a laughing voice called to him, snapping his focus back to the present. The woods and the distant mountains, the clear blue skies and fresh, wilderness air.

Antonia made her way towards him, her long hair loose, her grin broad as she crushed leaves and twigs and pine needles under her steps. She'd always been just his type – tall, dark hair, warm brown eyes and sharp, angular features. "You've been at that all day," she pointed out, folding her arms and giving him a playfully chastising look. "Come on – let's have lunch already. I've got the basket ready and everything. We can make a picnic of it." One of her hands extended towards him, pulling him in for a quick kiss.

Her lips felt cold.

"Have you been outside for long?" he asked with a grin.

She gave him a confused look, tugging him into step alongside her. Back to the cottage to collect their lunch. "No. Why?" she asked.

"Your lips are cold," he answered, pressing the back of his hand to the side of her cheek. Her skin felt cool, too. Or… not. He frowned a little, momentarily perplexed. She wasn't actually cold – no cooler than he was, really. She just wasn't any _warmer_ than that.

And why would she be?

"You're probably just over-heated from all that exertion," she assured him, smiling at his touch. Revealing a pretty mouth full of pretty, white teeth.

It was just a smile. But it itched at the back of his mind, and he squinted, wondering what was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. He was just tired. Old age actually catching up to him – that was why he'd needed to retire. _Wanted_ to retire. This was the good life, this was everything he'd never been able to have when he was captain, and weighed down with the demands of duty.

This was his beach to walk on.

He held Antonia's hand, the woods and picnic and cabin forgotten, and trailed alongside her barefoot in the sand. The cool sea air spilled over them, the day beautiful as the ocean lapped against the shore, and a distant gull cried. He laughed, and brushed a stray lock of her long hair from his face as the wind caught it and blew it towards him.

"Don't you love it here?" she asked him.

He did. He loved the beach, the scent of the sea and the broad, wide stretch of sand and stone.

His steps paused, and he shifted his gaze from the waters to the beach. There was something… something about the sand. Something that made him unhappy…

"You're awfully distracted today, Jim," Antonia noted with a hint of disapproval.

Just a hint. It always came through in hints and clues. You had to look for it, but it was there. Even when it wasn't – sometimes the absence could say as much as the presence. It was easy to misunderstand, but if you didn't, if you saw it, it was like striking gold. Gold as the riches that pirates sought. He really did love a good adventure…

All of his adventures were past him.

_No…_

He shook his head. Of course they were past him! He was an old man, settled down now. He'd seen the stars and visited countless worlds, he'd traveled through space, through time, his best years were behind him.

Just ahead of him.

No. Yes, wait, they were, because now he could finally have his _quiet_ years. Time free of the Khans and Klingons and looming alien threats he'd had to deal with until he was sick of it all. There were no more Neros waiting for him now.

…Wait. Who was Nero?

"Jim," Antonia said suddenly, standing in front of him, her hands on his face. "Have I ever told you that you think too much?"

"Who is…" he began to ask, but the name had already left him. And how would Antonia know anyway? That was from his old life. His other life. Another version of himself. Another Jim…

He clasped Antonia's wrists, scowling at her familiar, yet unfamiliar face. He didn't have a wife, and he wasn't enjoying his retirement. He was just at the beginning of his captaincy. And there was something… someone… he was supposed to find.

"What did you do to me?" he asked.

Antonia's expression was one of fondness and confusion. "Jim…" she began, and if she asked him what was wrong he thought he might snap, so instead he gave her wrists a firm shake. This wasn't him. He didn't long for beaches or wood cabins, and he wasn't in love with a pretty woman who laughed at all of his jokes.

"What are you?"

His tone brooked no further evasion. The sleepy, foggy feeling clawed at his mind again, trying to distract him. He grit his teeth and pushed the heel of his palm against his forehead, fighting it. "Fuck! Stop _doing_ that!" he demanded.

"Just relax," Antonia said, her tone pleading. "Just relax, Jim, and everything will be fine. It's bliss – I promise you."

_This_ was supposed to be bliss?

This was _boredom_. Tedium. Mediocrity with a side helping of confusion and frustration.

"Because you're _fighting_ it, Jim!" she insisted, as if she had been reading his thoughts. Which she must have been. Someone else was permitted to read his thoughts. It definitely wasn't Antonia, although there were some similarities. It was… it was…

"What did you do with him?" he demanded of the woman, letting go of his head long enough to glare at her. "Where's…"

It was like running into a wall inside of his head. _Get the hell out!_ he thought angrily.

Something pounded, as if a similar war were being waged on the other side of that wall.

"Just _let_ _go_!" Antonia said.

It was usually a bad idea to try and order him around. He'd never taken well to it. His natural rebelliousness worked with him to shirk off every ounce of that suggestion, and something in the air around him seemed to snap like a cord.

The wall crumbled, and suddenly, now, it seemed absolutely ridiculous that he wouldn't remember Spock, that he would ever mistake _himself_ for another Kirk.

_Found you!_ he thought with almost triumphant relief, even if he'd only found Spock within his own mind.

_Jim!_ Spock's voice echoed back at him, sounding as though it had carried across a long, long ways. There was a frantic quality to it. _Where are you?_

_I'm…_

He didn't know.

That was frustrating. It also might be nice if he could actually complete a thought sometime this century. Or dispel the sudden dizziness that had taken over his senses.

His legs seemed to have trouble holding him up for the moment. He stumbled against the perfect, golden sands, keeping pointedly clear of Antonia. With a few awkward steps, however, the world changed again. The placid beach was swallowed up in darkness.

Quiet, still, cool darkness.


End file.
